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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?
“The Best Health Care Plan: God’s Grace”
What does that even mean? If you die, at least you’ll go to heaven? I guess that’s better than the alternative. But what’s the premium like?
And no, it wasn’t a Christian Science church. It was a Foursquare Gospel church. Go figure.
I am down with a fierce head cold this week, so I sent my daughter to Mommy & Me swim class with the babysitter, and now I’m going to take a nap. Talk amongst yourselves.
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.)
How do you pronounce “Cuchulain”?
When I took my mythology course as an undergraduate, I think the professor pronounced the “ch” as in “choo choo.” I’m pretty sure (in retrospect) that this was incorrect, but I could be mistaken about him having done it that way. He was an extraordinarily competent person and I would hate to libel him as a mispronouncer of great names in Irish mythology based on nothing but my (often) faulty memory. Not that you should hold it against him anyway, because one can only be an expert on so many things, and there doesn’t appear to be any clear consensus on how to pronounce “Cuchulain” anyway, so why not pronounce the “ch” like “choo choo,” if that’s how you feel like doing it? What are the Irish going to do about it? Huh?
The professor who taught the Yeats seminar at my (first) graduate school pronounced it “koo-HOO-lin,” which there seems to be a lot more support for on the internet. However, I recently heard someone of Irish descent–who furthermore obviously had some knowledge about his ancestors’ mythological heroes–pronounce it “koo-KULL-lin.” And “koo-KULL-lin” is how they say it in Suidakra’s “Feats of War.” Listen:
Who are you going to believe?
This year Elvis is attending the same school that Princess Zurg attended before she got sent to the School for Incorrigible Girls. I am noticing the same pattern of behavior among people who learn that one of my children is attending this school. It goes like this:
Person: So where is Elvis [or PZ, as the case used to be] going to school?
Me: Super-Awesome Elementary. [Not the the school's real name but suitable enough for the purposes of this story]
Person: I’ve never heard of that. Where is it?
Me: It’s over by Hospital X. [Not the hospital's real name but again, suitable enough etc.]
Person: [confused expression, seeming to indicate that more specific information is necessary...waiting...waiting...waiting for me to say something else to support my assertion that the school does exist]
Why on earth would people do this? I tell you my kid goes to Super-Awesome Elementary; that really ought to be enough for you, I think. I understand being curious about where it is, but when I say it’s by Hospital X, how is that not enough for you? I know you know where Hospital X is. It’s impossible to live on this side of the city and not know where Hospital X is. Your last child was probably born there. It is a major landmark. It’s where they wanted to build the Wal-Mart. They provide medical care to the sick and injured. Any of this ringing a bell?
If you’re wondering how you could have driven past Hospital X for so many years and never noticed an elementary school, it’s because it’s not exactly right next door to the hospital. It is a few blocks up and off of the major thoroughfare that the hospital is on. But I’m not going to tell you that the school is not actually next door to the hospital but actually next door to the Smith family who live on Random Street-name Lane because I think the likelihood of you knowing where the Smiths live is much smaller than the likelihood of you understanding the GENERAL LOCATION of Hospital X, the only MAJOR LANDMARK by this school that I promise you does exist even though you’ve never seen it. You don’t really need latitude and longitude, do you? Why don’t you just Google it? Why are you hassling me?
I couldn’t tell you why this frustrates me so much, but it’s just been bugging me lately.
I took four years of German in high school. Don’t ask why, I just did. My college didn’t offer German, so I took two years of Spanish. I have mostly forgotten whatever I knew about either language.
My husband also took German in high school. In college he took Latin. On his mission he learned to ask three questions in Spanish. They were the questions you had to ask converts before they could get baptized. I think one of them was “Have you ever killed anyone?” Maybe not, but regardless of that, none was the sort of question that would be useful in casual conversation. Through various foreign-born acquaintances he has learned to say “you smell like a monkey” in, like, eight or sixteen different languages. When he was teaching SAT prep classes in California, his students taught him to say various rude things in Chinese, such as “Your math is terrible!” and “Your mother has AIDS!” (Note: the latter was unsolicited information, and fortunately he has never had to use it. … I should probably mention that he has never used it gratuitously, either.)
Princess Zurg is taking a foreign language in middle school, but it’s not German or Spanish or Latin or Chinese. It’s French. Ooh la la! It just occurred to me that I don’t know if my husband knows how to say “you smell like a monkey” in French, even though his brother served a mission in France and was reasonably fluent in it at one time even if he hasn’t kept it up much since. I’m having a hard time imagining that he never asked my brother-in-law to teach him that phrase; on the other hand, I have never heard him use it specifically. I have a feeling, though, that that little tidbit will come out eventually–probably at a parent-teacher conference. Time will tell.
I want to thank everyone for the Minis of encouragement and the like. I am much less sanity-challenged today than I was yesterday. I’ve been off my Effexor for almost a week, and I’m pre-menstrual, which isn’t helpful. This situation is too complicated to explain, but I can tell you that I am reading this book, It’s My Ovaries, Stupid! to try to figure out if it really is my ovaries (…stupid). And if it is my ovaries (stupid), I don’t rightly know what I’ll do about it, but I can’t imagine I’ll like any of the options. You know what kind of options I like? Easy ones. Ovaries are apparently not for the stupid to figure out. That doesn’t bode well for me. But I digress.
I was going to say that I am trying to manage my life better by making these short to-do lists. (Today’s list: Shower. Check. I feel better already.) It is harder than it sounds. I have never been good at short to-do lists. I’m better at making long to-do lists, failing to do most of what’s on them and consequently hating myself for my failures. That’s really where my strengths lie. However, I am willing–for the sake of science, if nothing else–to give these short to-do lists a go. Today I put seven things on my to-do list. (Two of them were “Change the baby’s diaper” and “Feed the baby breakfast.” Check and check! I’m like Superwoman today, kids.)
I took my compulsion to craft long to-do lists and channeled it into a “Things I Can Do Today If I Really Want To But Only If I Really Want To” list. It’s twice as long and far more challenging, and I haven’t done any of it so far. But then again, I haven’t wanted to. Which means that I have been very successful in compartmentalizing my lists. If that were on one of my lists, I could check it off. Theoretically. But I’m also working on not making such long lists, so I left it off.
I’m to be congratulated.
Well, I’m off to take my thyroid supplement (also on the list–I’ll let you guess which one). I hope you all have a lovely weekend. A collective lovely weekend. Or separate lovely weekends. Whichever. (Clear and accurate writing isn’t on my to-do list either. I figure if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.)
There’s an old Conan O’Brien “Celebrity Secrets” bit with John McCain (the real John McCain), and at one point John McCain says, “I was in prison for five years. The worst part was coming home and finding out they’d canceled Green Acres. What the hell was I fighting for?!” That line never fails to crack me up.
In fact, I’m in the market for a new sign-off line. I think a random, out-of-nowhere “What the hell was I fighting for?!” would be just about perfect.
So I was taking a DVD out of the DVD player, and I wanted to put it back in its case, but it was one of those DVDs that just has the title in tiny print on the rim of the disc, and I’m so old and visually-challenged now that I couldn’t tell what the heck DVD it was. I thought it was probably Green Acres, but only because my kids have been watching Green Acres lately and not because I could in any way make out a G or an A or any other letter. It was just pure guessage. And I thought, “Why on earth do they do this with DVDs? How hard is it to emblazon the name of the movie in large print across the face of the disc (or the back of the disc, whichever it is)?” And then I remembered that it’s actually a double-sided disc, so that’s probably why, and then I thought, “How many people with good eyesight are watching Green Acres? Why can’t they make the letters just a teensy bit bigger? Do they just assume my grandkids are gonna be there to put away the DVD for me? It’s rather presumptuous of them.”
I’m getting cranky in my old age.
I think there’s an old SNL skit with Tom Hanks where it’s a bunch of stand-up comics hanging out and shooting the breeze. Someone says, “And what’s the deal with refried beans? Do they fry them twice? Does the chef wear bifocals? I WANNA KNOW!”
What do you wanna know?
So the kids have been back in school for a week now. I have nothing to say about that. Except “WOO-HOO! I’M FREE! FREEEEEEEE!!!”
Or I would be free, except now that three of the four kids are gone all day, I have no more excuses for all the crap I fail to get done. My husband is so afraid that I’m going to sit on my fat can blogging all day while the three-year-old languishes in a Goldfish-induced stupor in front of the television. This is a purely theoretical fear on his part, of course. Ahem. Anyway, he’s so concerned that I won’t know what to do with all my free time that he’s forced me to enroll Girlfriend and myself in a “Mommy & Me” preschool swimming class two days a week. By “forced” I don’t mean literally forced, of course. I mean emotionally-blackmailed-slash-full-out-psychological-warfare forced. It’s totally different.
Anyway, so now we’re going to be swimming two mornings a week. Did I mention that I’m supposed to be toilet-training her now also? Because now that the kids are back in school and I have all this time on my hands, there’s no excuse for not doing that either. Other than the fact that she’s really constipated right now, and I should probably wait until that particular sphincter starts working properly again. Hey, look, there’s an excuse right there. Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.
I was actually going to tell you how much I don’t enjoy swimming, and how much I especially will not enjoy swimming when it starts raining again. But if the blog gets too long, my husband will probably start getting suspicious and sign me up for some other damn thing I don’t want to do. Speaking of which, I’ve got at least three loads of laundry upstairs with my name on them, so I guess I’d better sign off now.
What the hell was I fighting for?!
So I’m back, but I don’t have time to post about my vacation right now. Because I should actually be doing other stuff. Which I’m going to do, just as soon as I get off the computer. Totally.
I’ve decided that if I ever own a pie shop, I will call it PIE R SQUARED. Each slice of pie will cost $3.14. Actually, it will cost $3.14159265 and change, but for ease in accounting, it will cost $3.14. Whole pies will be $3.14 times the radius (in inches) squared. No one will mind paying that much because the pies will be delicious. The day-old pies will sell for $0.314 times the radius squared, but you have to do the math correctly in order to get the reduced price. Math skills will increase among the general population because the pies will be that delicious. People will revere me as a humanitarian.
Eventually some joker will walk in and say, “So how come your pies aren’t square-shaped? Shouldn’t you call this place ‘PIE RN’T SQUARED, or something?” And I will say, “Idiot!” and I will charge him twice as much for the pie. Actually, I will charge him the price of the pie squared. And he will pay it because he is an idiot and also the pies will be that delicious.
You may have to wait until after my kids start school to get the lowdown on my vacation because I am just that busy. Busy busy busy.
So I started using Twitter in earnest a couple weeks ago. By “in earnest” I mean “at all.” I’m not really that into it. And yet, I am a little bit. It’s like blogging for the lazy. And I am lazy.
These are all reruns if you follow me on Twitter. But chances are that you are not one of the three people who follow me on Twitter, so here you go. It’s my gift to you. (I never said it was a good gift. It’s just all I’ve got to give today. And it is free.)
* Elvis is on a rampage this week. He’s like Sam Kinison meets Rain Man.
* I think my cuticles are permanently dyed red and blue from where I painted my toenails on July 4th.
* Wonder if my patent leather tap shoes are still at Goodwill. What’s the demand for patent leather tap shoes in a Ladies Size 9?
* Am I feeling lonely today? I just made, like, 47 Facebook friend requests. Tap shoe shopping must make me needy and insecure.
* I’m no good at eBay. I would feel guilty winning an auction, like I’d taken it from someone who needed it more.
* Learned umbrella number from Spamalot last night. Pros re dancing w/props: mistakes w/ props distract from mistakes w/ feet. Cons: so hard.
* Atheists are pretty boisterous if you get chocolate in ‘em.
* A badly-written piece of erotica can haunt you for days. Maybe even a lifetime.
* There’s nothing cool about Cool Ranch Doritos.
* Today’s bumper sticker: “Trees are the answer.” I think I prefer “The answer is ‘Trees.’”
1. Thanks for all your comments on the tell-me-about-yourself post yesterday. I read and enjoyed each and every one of them. Incidentally, it’s still not too late to comment. (I’m talking to you, Mel.) (And the rest of you.)
2. Yesterday my husband came home from work and informed me that according to our thermostat, it was 92 degrees in the house. Which was even worse than I thought it was. I mean, it certainly felt at least 92 degrees, but I have a tendency to exaggerate sometimes. Especially about heat. Like the time I said it was hot enough in our bathroom to fry an egg on the toilet seat. That was probably not true, strictly speaking. On the other hand, strictly speaking, I have never attempted to fry an egg on my toilet seat, so who’s to say what’s “true” here?
3. It was so hot that we went out for dinner. We had Vietnamese sandwiches at Best Baguette. Let me tell you right now, I love Best Baguette. I would eat there every day if I could get away with it. Every day. Heat or no heat.
4. This morning I woke up and the thermostat said it was 85 degrees. That’s when Sugar Daddy decided to go out and buy a wall-unit air conditioner. He had to drive to Jantzen Beach for it, which means something if you know where we live and also know where Jantzen Beach is, but since most of you probably don’t, let’s just say it was farther away than I expected him to go. Anyway, the point is he went the extra mile and came back and installed it before going to work. It’s probably the best gift he’s ever given me, aside from my children. No, I’m just kidding. It’s way better than the children. I shouldn’t even joke about that stuff.
5. Yesterday I was finally able to take off the steri-strips from my biopsy. This was only a big deal because I haven’t been able to get them wet and thus haven’t been able to shower (or jump in a pool or a fountain) for the last five days. Look, I bathed, okay? I just couldn’t shower. I discovered that I really, really like showers. A lot. A LOT. Also, steri-strips + freaky-hot weather=serious itching. So I was glad to be rid of that. And since I know you’re all dying to have this information about me, the wound is healing just fine but still looks plenty gnarly. It looks like somebody punched my left breast while they were wearing a sharp-edged ring, leaving a large greenish-yellow bruise–well, not technically large, but covering the whole side of my breast–plus a small black scab. It’s not sexy. Fortunately, they don’t need me back at the topless bar for another week or so. Also, this theoretical topless bar that would hire me obviously has low standards. So it’s all good.
6. I think I’m all done. I promised a quick update, after all. And I’d better save something for tomorrow.
After last night’s post, I feel a strong need to change the tone, and yet I have nothing to say. I also have about ten minutes before I have to leave to pick up Princess Zurg from school and take her to drama “camp.” (I have to call it “camp” because THEY call it “camp,” even though it’s not even outside. It’s madness, I tell you!)
What’s on my mind?
I took Elvis to swim class this morning and forgot his towel. Doh!
My husband said something really weird to me in bed last night. Granted, he was asleep at the time, but still, it was disturbing. I’ve decided against telling you about it because then if he decided to repeat something weird that I said in bed, I would totally deserve it–and I don’t want to know what secrets he’s got up his sleeve. And yes, you can thank me later.
This morning Girlfriend painted her fingernails with a black Sharpie. She looked pretty awesome. Unfortunately, it was right before swim lessons, and it wore off before I could get pictures. Yes, it was an actual Sharpie pen. I think she must have licked it off along with the nacho cheese powder from those Doritos she was munching while Elvis was in the pool. Long story, but if you were wondering what gets out Sharpie pen, nacho cheese powder and my three-year-old’s saliva seem to do the trick. It also probably helps if the Sharpie pen is on fingernails and not, say, your living room sofa.
I rediscovered Flair on Facebook yesterday. I’m now the proud owner of about seven pieces of David Duchovny Flair. Except I’m not proud. I’m a little bit ashamed. But I couldn’t decide which one I wanted, so I got them all. Not that I have room for any of them on my cork board. At least it was free, unlike some sexual addictions.
And that’s about it for me. Anybody got a good meme?
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