I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Timmy the Turd
Today is Molly's 4th birthday (Happy Birthday, Molly!). I googled "funny birthday," hoping to find a cute picture or something to post here in honor of her special day. I was browsing the first page of image hits, when I happened upon the following.
I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.
I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
No ice cream for you
My husband wants to buy an ice cream truck. When I say that he wants to buy one, I don't mean he mentioned it in passing. I mean that he's been looking on Craigslist and eBay at ice cream trucks for sale. He stopped the ice cream lady that comes through our neighborhood to ask her questions about where to get inventory. He even found one for rent and called the owner to find out how much and what the terms were.
He's serious about wanting an ice cream truck.
It occurred to me that he works a full time job during daylight hours, when most ice cream truck business would be taking place. The next time he called me over to look at a "really cool one" on the computer, I cornered him.
"So, sweetie, are you planning on quitting your job or what?"
"Why would I quit my job?"
"To drive the ice cream truck that you are so set on buying."
That was met with a moment of silence. With my husband, silence means one of two things - either I've stunned him and he's speechless, or he's taking a moment to try and figure out how to tell me something. In this case, it was the latter.
"Well, honeysweetiepumpkin, I thought maybe you would like to drive it. Look, it's pink."
Of course. Why didn't I think of that myself? It's always been my dream to drive in circles for hours on end, selling ice cream to sweaty kids with handfuls of pennies.
"What in the name of Blue Bunny would make you think I want to drive an ice cream truck?"
He looked thoughtful. "Ice cream trucks are cool. They play fun music."
Oh, no. I hadn't considered the music. You think It's a Small World is bad twice in a row, try hanging out near the ice cream truck for an hour. There's one that used to drive through a neighboring town that had a unique soundtrack. It played "La Cucaracha" loudly, over and over. In case you're not fluent in ice-cream-truckish, that means "the cockroach." Appetizing, eh?
I told him I would make a terrible ice cream lady, and it's true. Every kid that came up and asked "how much," then turned away with a sad face after looking at a sweaty quarter would get free ice cream from me. I'm a sucker for kids. I also told him that until gas prices fall below "WTF" level, that it's just not economically smart to drive in circles all day to try to sell $1.50 ice cream bars. My final argument was that we couldn't afford the Xanax prescription that I would need to not go bonkers listening to a tinkling version of "How Much is That Doggy in the Window" all damn day.
He's still shopping around for an ice cream truck. He can keep right on looking. When he finds one and buys it, I'll load the kids up in it, paint a tiny mustache on my upper lip, and make myself a nametag that says, "The Ice Cream Nazi," then I'll terrorize the neighborhood. It'll be fun.
He's serious about wanting an ice cream truck.
It occurred to me that he works a full time job during daylight hours, when most ice cream truck business would be taking place. The next time he called me over to look at a "really cool one" on the computer, I cornered him.
"So, sweetie, are you planning on quitting your job or what?"
"Why would I quit my job?"
"To drive the ice cream truck that you are so set on buying."
That was met with a moment of silence. With my husband, silence means one of two things - either I've stunned him and he's speechless, or he's taking a moment to try and figure out how to tell me something. In this case, it was the latter.
"Well, honeysweetiepumpkin, I thought maybe you would like to drive it. Look, it's pink."
Of course. Why didn't I think of that myself? It's always been my dream to drive in circles for hours on end, selling ice cream to sweaty kids with handfuls of pennies.
"What in the name of Blue Bunny would make you think I want to drive an ice cream truck?"
He looked thoughtful. "Ice cream trucks are cool. They play fun music."
Oh, no. I hadn't considered the music. You think It's a Small World is bad twice in a row, try hanging out near the ice cream truck for an hour. There's one that used to drive through a neighboring town that had a unique soundtrack. It played "La Cucaracha" loudly, over and over. In case you're not fluent in ice-cream-truckish, that means "the cockroach." Appetizing, eh?
I told him I would make a terrible ice cream lady, and it's true. Every kid that came up and asked "how much," then turned away with a sad face after looking at a sweaty quarter would get free ice cream from me. I'm a sucker for kids. I also told him that until gas prices fall below "WTF" level, that it's just not economically smart to drive in circles all day to try to sell $1.50 ice cream bars. My final argument was that we couldn't afford the Xanax prescription that I would need to not go bonkers listening to a tinkling version of "How Much is That Doggy in the Window" all damn day.
He's still shopping around for an ice cream truck. He can keep right on looking. When he finds one and buys it, I'll load the kids up in it, paint a tiny mustache on my upper lip, and make myself a nametag that says, "The Ice Cream Nazi," then I'll terrorize the neighborhood. It'll be fun.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Mommy Stay-Puff
Kids say the darnedest things.
Last night I was holding the girls in my lap, reading The Runaway Bunny. They were snuggled under a blanket, captivated by the story... or so I thought. Something in the book made Molly think of food. It might have been the big bunny cloud, blowing the bunny sailboat home. Whatever it was, she decided she was hungry, and it wasn't for hasenpfeffer.
"Mommy, I wish you were made of marshmallow so I could take a bite of you."
Say what? While I was still trying to figure out where in the world she got that idea from, she bit me. She chomped my arm like a dog tearing into a t-bone.
"OWWWW!"
She smacked her lips a little, made a face, then said, "You don't taste like marshmallow."
Sunday, August 3, 2008
It's funny sign Sunday!
I'm designating Sundays "Funny Sign Day" from this point on. Hey, at least you're getting something out of me on a weekend day.
Here's one I found the other day. I have no idea why this is so funny to me, but it cracks me up. I picture Caillou running around stealing wallets every time I see it.
Here's one I found the other day. I have no idea why this is so funny to me, but it cracks me up. I picture Caillou running around stealing wallets every time I see it.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
They're coming to take me away, hee hee ho ho
For all my friends and loved ones who are reading this, be forewarned: don't be surprised if I am suddenly MIA for a week or two. No, I'm not going on vacation. Well, I suppose it could be viewed as a vacation of sorts, depending on one's mental state.
I'm considering checking myself into the loony bin. I'm not crazy. I just really need a break from my kids. I mean... they think it's fun to play with poop. Seriously, what did I do in my childhood to deserve this kind of torture? I think I need to explore my inner person a little, and I need to do it as an inpatient.
I've put a great deal of thought into this. I considered doing something illegal, like stealing a car, and just getting myself arrested. Jail seemed like as good a place as any to escape to (oh, the irony), but after further contemplation I decided this might not be a good idea. I made a list comparing jail to the mental hospital. Following are my thoughts on the various aspects of my stay in either place.
1. Written record of my stay. Jail records are public. Anyone can go online and find out exactly how many times a person has been in legal trouble. That might come back to bite me in the butt later in life. My shrink would be sworn to silence. The verdict: mental hospital.
2. The menu. It's my understanding that the county jail in these parts does not employ a gourmet chef. I hear talk of beans... lots and lots of beans. Beans make me fart, so I'm not cool with that. I have to think that the food choices will be better in the nuthouse. Nobody wants to give people in unbalanced mental states bad food - the idea is to make the residents there happy, not gassy. I'll pass on the magical fruit. The verdict: mental hospital.
3. The neighbors. This one has no clear slant. I sure as hell don't want to be the bitch of some scary woman with tattoos on her face that's imprisoned for killing her boyfriend. I also am not sure I want to exchange personal info with someone who has a collection of voices in their head - the pressure to make sure they all like me might be too much to deal with. The verdict: undecided.
4. The accommodations. I feel pretty sure that my chances at a comfortable bed and a houseplant are better in the mental ward. Like I said, the idea is to make the people living there happy, not to punish them. The verdict: mental hospital.
5. The wardrobe. This one's a no-brainer. I don't look good in orange. The verdict: mental hospital.
6. Recreation. In jail you get to walk around outside for a short time every day. Sunshine is good, but drugs are better. In the loony bin they give you drugs and tell you that weaving baskets is great fun. I've always wanted to know how to make a basket. I'll stock up for Christmas. The verdict: mental hospital.
7. The release process. At some point I'm going to want to come home. Clearly, I'm not walking out of jail when I'm "done." I could try, but I'm going to need someone to send me a cake with a file in it. The verdict: mental hospital.
Looks like the mental hospital is my best bet. Now that it's clear what the better choice is, I just need to figure out how to get them to let me in. Maybe I'll just make a copy of this post and let them read it. Anybody who would write all this out and weigh "jail vs. nuthouse" is probably in need of a few days alone in a padded room and a double dose of Prozac.
I'll start packing.
I'm considering checking myself into the loony bin. I'm not crazy. I just really need a break from my kids. I mean... they think it's fun to play with poop. Seriously, what did I do in my childhood to deserve this kind of torture? I think I need to explore my inner person a little, and I need to do it as an inpatient.
I've put a great deal of thought into this. I considered doing something illegal, like stealing a car, and just getting myself arrested. Jail seemed like as good a place as any to escape to (oh, the irony), but after further contemplation I decided this might not be a good idea. I made a list comparing jail to the mental hospital. Following are my thoughts on the various aspects of my stay in either place.
1. Written record of my stay. Jail records are public. Anyone can go online and find out exactly how many times a person has been in legal trouble. That might come back to bite me in the butt later in life. My shrink would be sworn to silence. The verdict: mental hospital.
2. The menu. It's my understanding that the county jail in these parts does not employ a gourmet chef. I hear talk of beans... lots and lots of beans. Beans make me fart, so I'm not cool with that. I have to think that the food choices will be better in the nuthouse. Nobody wants to give people in unbalanced mental states bad food - the idea is to make the residents there happy, not gassy. I'll pass on the magical fruit. The verdict: mental hospital.
3. The neighbors. This one has no clear slant. I sure as hell don't want to be the bitch of some scary woman with tattoos on her face that's imprisoned for killing her boyfriend. I also am not sure I want to exchange personal info with someone who has a collection of voices in their head - the pressure to make sure they all like me might be too much to deal with. The verdict: undecided.
4. The accommodations. I feel pretty sure that my chances at a comfortable bed and a houseplant are better in the mental ward. Like I said, the idea is to make the people living there happy, not to punish them. The verdict: mental hospital.
5. The wardrobe. This one's a no-brainer. I don't look good in orange. The verdict: mental hospital.
6. Recreation. In jail you get to walk around outside for a short time every day. Sunshine is good, but drugs are better. In the loony bin they give you drugs and tell you that weaving baskets is great fun. I've always wanted to know how to make a basket. I'll stock up for Christmas. The verdict: mental hospital.
7. The release process. At some point I'm going to want to come home. Clearly, I'm not walking out of jail when I'm "done." I could try, but I'm going to need someone to send me a cake with a file in it. The verdict: mental hospital.
Looks like the mental hospital is my best bet. Now that it's clear what the better choice is, I just need to figure out how to get them to let me in. Maybe I'll just make a copy of this post and let them read it. Anybody who would write all this out and weigh "jail vs. nuthouse" is probably in need of a few days alone in a padded room and a double dose of Prozac.
I'll start packing.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Payback
When I was a little girl, my sisters and I shared a bedroom. My mom and dad were strict about bedtime, and we were all put to bed with a hug and a kiss and expected to stay there. I don't know why it is that this worked better for my mom than it does for me, but I attribute it to the fact that we were just better kids than mine are.
Every night, we would lay in our beds and talk and giggle. Every night, my mom would come to the doorway and give us a stern look and a threat. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you."
Inevitably, one of us would wait until she turned to walk away and make a very small, quiet sound.
"Peep."
We did it every time. It made my mom really, really mad. We would never confess who did the peeping, and we always played innocent when she tried to find out who the culprit was. Her angry, "WHO peeped?" was always met with a chorus of "Not me." We thought we were pretty damn clever.
A couple of nights ago, I was tucking the girls in. Kiss, hug, kiss, hug, warning not to get out of bed... good night. Within seconds of leaving the room, I heard them laughing and wiggling around. I stuck my head in their door and said, "Girls, it's time to go to sleep. I don't want to hear another peep out of either of you."
You know what comes next. Molly looked at me, sweet as pie, and said, "PEEP." I had to leave the room so they wouldn't see me laughing, but I think they knew. The two of them laid in their beds and peeped themselves to sleep, while I considered the fact that I deserved that payback. I'm slowly turning into my mother, and my daughters are turning into mirror images of me. The mother's curse is taking effect. You know the curse... "I hope you have two just like you."
Peep.
Every night, we would lay in our beds and talk and giggle. Every night, my mom would come to the doorway and give us a stern look and a threat. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you."
Inevitably, one of us would wait until she turned to walk away and make a very small, quiet sound.
"Peep."
We did it every time. It made my mom really, really mad. We would never confess who did the peeping, and we always played innocent when she tried to find out who the culprit was. Her angry, "WHO peeped?" was always met with a chorus of "Not me." We thought we were pretty damn clever.
A couple of nights ago, I was tucking the girls in. Kiss, hug, kiss, hug, warning not to get out of bed... good night. Within seconds of leaving the room, I heard them laughing and wiggling around. I stuck my head in their door and said, "Girls, it's time to go to sleep. I don't want to hear another peep out of either of you."
You know what comes next. Molly looked at me, sweet as pie, and said, "PEEP." I had to leave the room so they wouldn't see me laughing, but I think they knew. The two of them laid in their beds and peeped themselves to sleep, while I considered the fact that I deserved that payback. I'm slowly turning into my mother, and my daughters are turning into mirror images of me. The mother's curse is taking effect. You know the curse... "I hope you have two just like you."
Peep.
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