Falls Under the Category of WTF?

I was shopping on Amazon for some vitamin B today. Since Pleasantville is pretty small, we don't have everything available here in town at a great price. I found the vitamins that I wanted, same brand and everything at Amazon for less than the local price at the health food store. Not only is it a couple of dollars cheaper but the bottle has twice as much. Exhibit A

So, I needed to spend a few more dollars to get free shipping. I decided to see what other fabulous deals the same store within Amazon has to offer and I came across this, uh, syringe.

I had never heard of this product and made the executive decision that this was NOT going to be my extra product of choice to catapult me into the land of free shipping. After all, the reviews clearly indicated that this particular model has "no back flow valve."

The Fly Story

I was talking to my friend Lisa the other night and she told me a funny story. Well, disturbing and funny.

Lisa- Did I ever tell you the story about the guy with the fly?

Me- Uh, no.

Lisa- Well, this was like ten years ago back when I was running the bar up at the motel. I was wearing a cute little dress and like some black tights. I was looking pretty good. Then this guy came in. He was older, probably fifties or so and a business guy. His face was kind of red and he had jowls. He was pretty drunk before I even gave him a drink but he was trying to flirt with me. While he was sitting there at the bar, this fly landed on his face, right on his cheek. It wasn’t just one of those little houseflies though, it was big, almost as big as a horsefly.

Lisa- Anyway, this fly is right on his face and he doesn’t even notice. It’s like his face is numb or something. Then this fly starts walking across his face and he’s still just sitting there trying to flirt.

Me- Why didn’t you tell him or wave it away?

Lisa- I don’t know. I just didn’t. It was so gross and I couldn’t look away. Anyway, this fly is now walking on the side of his face and it makes it’s way to the corner of his mouth. The guy’s mouth is kind of hanging open a little and the fly just walks in. It doesn’t come back out either. He swallowed the fly.

Me- That is disgusting. What did you do?

Lisa- I said I think we’re closing up now because I thought I was going to throw up.

Stomach Flu, cont.

The stomach flu is officially over in my house. I got it, too. Here is the sequence of events. Claire got it Sunday, Marin Monday afternoon, and Katie Monday evening. By Wednesday evening I thought I had dodged the bullet. I was especially vigilant when Claire got sick and washed my hands repeatedly. By the time Marin and Katie started throwing up, I still tried to be careful but my surgical scrub was no longer practical and was replaced with the occasional wiping my hands on my pants and calling it good. Mistake.

By Wednesday night I was really sick. I got everyone ready for bed as quickly as possible and climbed into bed. Marin was in her crib right across the hall from my room, talking. Marin tries to say “puke” but says “peek” instead.

Marin- “You peeking, Mommy?”

Me- “Yes.”

Marin- “I peek all day.”


Marin then proceeded to take all of her clothes off. I was too sick to help her but Claire was a good helper and dressed her baby sister for me. The fun continued for hours.

The next day I was still tired and was looking forward to sleeping through the night. Instead, my phone started ringing at 5 AM. I looked and saw that it was William. I decided I should answer since anyone calling at 5 in the morning better have a really good reason. I was able to ascertain that he was at work and had the stomach flu. I don’t remember much of the conversation. Then my phone rang again around 6 AM and it was William again. He thought he needed to go to the hospital.

I arranged for someone to pick William up from work and then my phone rang again. I saw that it was N calling and thought he must be calling to tell me that William was sick.

Me- “Hello?”

N- “Mmmmommmm?”

Me- “You have got to be kidding me.”

N- “Can you come over? I think I need to go to the hospital.”

I had Andrea retrieve N and soon I had a living room full of sick people again. They have all recovered now and no one actually needed to go to the hospital. The end.

Now for something amusing. If you haven’t visited “Texts From Last Night” you need to. It is funny, funny stuff. Here are a few of my favorites:



Just saw a girl leaving CVS on her bike with a case of beer. She tried to ride one handed with the case under her other arm and fell over off the sidewalk. I'm glad to see someone else's life is a bigger joke than mine.



I just followed a trail of feathers and glitter to class. Today better be fucking magical.



everyday i am more and more thankful i can still check the no box for "have you ever been convicted of a felony?" on applications



We tried to play doctor all sexually then he was taking down my 'symptoms' I said I needed to puke he thought it was part of the game



I know it may not be fiscally responsible to pregame fifty cent night, but I'm gonna go ahead and do it anyway.



my little brother just told me that I should start chasing my vodka with slim fast. genious.



you need to leave class get on facebook and start untagging IMMEDIATELY



running late. just ran over a dude on a bike



some guy just pulled a dress out of a fax machine...I have no idea what the hell is going on



Woke up in a closet. I'm not drinking till summer.



I just sat in the Taco Bell drive-thru waiting for a trash can to take my order. Yes, that high.



I just woke up and checked my e-mail, and apparently while drunk I bought a blowtorch. Thought you'd want to know.



When we woke up, I asked if we could play "what does your name rhyme with".....he said 'bave' thank god it was easy



My ferret is drunk. Someone told me you'd know what to do?



I don't know where I am but there are firefighters



I just made out with a girl with a life jacket on wtf is going on



you kept making us tell you how cute you looked in your new outfit, even after you threw up all over it



Is a Chipotle burrito an acceptable "sorry I ran over your cat" gift?



Yeah, I was googling pictures of sharks, and I accidentally typed "shart." Huge mistake.




So not only just find my adoption papers that I didnt know about in my parents house, but they say "child shows some signs of mental retardation".



either she said she was feeling frisky or eating friskies..i was too drunk to understand.



just woke up with a thong on my face, dont remember going home with anyone and its
way too big for it to be a good thing



What part of "waking up in the crawl space of my house with a raccoon" sounds like a good night to you?



what do 4 police cars, 1 ambulence, and 2 fire truycks have in common?.... My driveway



I accidently shit my pants. So I tried to throw my underwear in their lake, but they floated. So in the middle of the night, I got into the paddle boat and had to throw a rock on top of them so they would sink. Next time, I just won't shit myself.



i ate 2 chicken nuggets and puked out 5. that doesn't even make mathematical sense



I know the vomits not mine cause its on my back.


so I was just driving high and I stopped to let a pinecone cross the road because I thought it was a hedgehog.


(404):
what's for breakfast?
(678):
Advil and throwup




He looked way older than 15. He probably thought that since I have braces I was 15. Fuck. The 6 year age gap is never to be spoken about. Especially because what happened constitutes as illegal.

The Family Emergency That Wasn't Really an Emergency

I have a guest blogger today. My friend Lori was kind enough to write the cat story that made me laugh and laugh when she told it. It made me laugh again to read it. I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I did. Maybe I'll even talk Lori into posting some more of her stories. Keep your fingers crossed....



The text message comes at 3am. The sound of my cell phone on the bedside table startles me awake. A family emergency. What else could it be at that hour? My worst fear realized. My diabetic mother is in her seventies. My stepfather has suffered 5 heart attacks. Worse yet, my son is twenty, likes to party and is convinced he's invincible. Which one could it be? I'm nearly paralyzed with fear.


"Libby is dead", it reads.


Christ. Libby? LIBBY??? I get out of bed, clumsily throw on my robe and exit the bedroom. I fumble down the stairs, take the phone to the garage, sit down and light a cigarette, anything to clear my head. LIBBY?? DEAD???
My mind is racing. My hands are shaking, evidenced by the bobbing cherry of my cigarette in the dark garage.


Who the hell is Libby? My God. Why can't I wake up and come to my senses? It's January in Iowa, for chrissake. I'm in the garage. I have hypothermia. I ought to be awake. Libby who???
I crush out the cigarette and light another. The next text message arrives a few moments later. "I couldn't save her. I tried and couldn't do it. I can't believe she's dead".


Only then do I think to check my phone for the sender's identity. Amanda. My sister. Aha. Libby. Her cat. Fuck. Amanda's life revolves around her cats. She is the scary cat lady that people cross the street to avoid, minus 40 years. With the help of my mother, Amanda and her cats even exchange Christmas gifts. Her cats have even spoken their welcomes to me at Amanda's door via Amanda's vocal cords. Her cats have waved goodbye to me via Amanda's puppeteering skills. Libby is dead? Amanda is probably fervently searching for an icepick to bury in her own jugular vein. Fuuuuuck.


I force myself to call her. God, I don't want to call her but I'm her older, wiser sister and I must. She answers on the first ring, sobbing. "What happened?" I ask. She pulls herself together...sort of. She had been asleep, she tells me, when she heard Libby making terrible noises in the hallway outside of her bedroom door. She got out of bed to check on her and Libby wasn't herself. She made sure that she wasn't choking on something, fully prepared, I'm sure, to administer the Heimlich Maneuver or CPR should the situation require it. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, Amanda went back to bed. Moments later she heard Libby make a horrible coughing/gurgling noise and when she checked on her this time she was lying in the hall. Shortly after Amanda began to comfort her, Libby expired.


She goes on to explain what happened next.


She called her on-again-off-again stoner boyfriend, Eric, and explains that she needs him. Bad. At 3am he rushes across town and finds his on-again-off-again girlfriend not in need of him so much as his manly ability to touch a dead cat. She orders him to remove Libby at once. Unable, I'm assuming, to talk her off the ledge, he obeys. She throws a hefty bag in his face. He obediently places the lifeless cat in the plastic bag. He pulls the ties tight. She screams at him to untie them at once. If he ties them, you know, Libby will suffocate. Her dead cat will suffocate.


He carries the cat down her stairs and out her front door, Amanda following closely behind, crying, retching, in shock. He pops open his trunk. "NO!!", she screams. "There's no air in the goddamn trunk!" She redirects him, opens the car door for him and watches as he places the cat on his car seat. She instructs him to take the cat to his house - she can't bear to have her dead Libby anywhere on her property by now - and to bury her immediately. Properly. With love.
She, of course, will call in sick to work.


He explains that the ground is a bit too frozen for a traditional burial but will keep Libby safe from harm in his freezer. In the bag. Untied. Right there on top of the frozen pizzas. He, of course, will bury the cat this weekend, when the forecast calls for temps in the high negative teens. A real heat wave. Delirious in her grief, she is satisfied with this news and ends her call.


Fast forward. Two days later. Amanda calls Eric to check on the status of her cat. It wasn't the report she wanted. Libby is still dead. Amanda hears a female voice in the background and demands to know who's at Eric's house. Owing Amanda nothing he readily admits that it's Michelle, another member of the on-again-off-again harem. Amanda, with no further provocation, becomes hysterical. "My dear, dear, dear, sweet baby Libby is dead in your freezer and YOU HAVE A FUCKING WHORE IN YOUR HOUSE????

Texting (All the Cool Kids are Doing it...)

Andrea is leaving for an exotic Carribean vacation tomorrow, which means that I'm stuck taking care of her cat. She sent me a text to thank me for my pet care services.

Andrea- Also, Thanks SOOOO much!!! Do you want me to bring you anything?

Me- How about a t-shirt that says "I took care of your fucking cat for 10 days and all I got was this lousy t-shirt"....

A couple of days ago I texted my friend Lori to complain/whine about my ear infection.

Lori- One of my friends had an ear infection for days. Took antibiotics and now has a yeast infection/fungus in her ear. Yuck!

Me- Probiotic with antibiotic will prevent most of that.

Lori- I bought her some Vagisil for her ear.

Me- Helpful...

Lori- That's what friends are for. I even convinced her that the fish smell in her ear wasn't that noticable...

Road Rage Revisited

This was originally posted a couple of years ago but I decided to re-post a few older things every now and then for the new people. It's all about getting up to speed, you know...

Road Rage


I have written before about the endless questions from small children and since it continues to amuse me, I’ll be covering that subject yet again.

Today as I was driving down the highway, Katie who is four, had questions. As usual, a lot of questions. As I was passing a car on the two-lane highway, she asked, “Why are we going so fast?” That seemed like a reasonable question, easy enough to answer and be done with. So hoping to satisfy her curiosity, I explained to her that we needed to go fast to go around another car that was going too slow. Then she asked, “Why you didn’t say ‘Move idiot’? Why you didn’t?”

In retrospect, I guess it is a fair bet that she has heard me say that a few times. It could be worse. Normally I am not a terribly impatient driver but it absolutely drives me nuts when someone pulls out in front of me and then drives so slowly that you just know that they must be headed to the senior center. So, that is where the “move idiot” and even the occasional “dickhead” come out.

Ironically, last week my teenage son accused me of driving too slowly. Just to clarify, this is completely false and I speed on a regular basis. I have been known to tell my small children, “Help Mommy look out for cops”. Then I realized how bad that sounded. So to make things worse, after my son accused me of driving like an old person, he then said that C. drives fast. HE HAD IT COMPLETELY REVERSED! We are talking about a man that can’t do anything within a reasonable period of time, including driving from point A to point B. I am fairly confident that any drivers with the misfortune to follow him would not be at all surprised to see him park the car and remove a walker from the trunk. He can’t even just get in or out of the car without stopping to do something completely unrelated, for example, getting a Kleenex and wiping some bird poop off the car door. Of course, then it is possible that his next thought is about birds and his next stop just might be the garage to get the bird food and then proceed to replenish the feeders. Then he might finally get in the goddamn car. Deep breaths everyone.

A few days ago, I was trapped in the car with the above mentioned slowpoke, on the interstate, and decided to amuse myself a bit. I told him that my son said that I drive too slowly and HE drives fast. I half expected a rant from him about why I do drive too fast in his opinion, blah, blah, blah. Instead the conversation went in a direction that I really had not anticipated. He didn’t say a word about my driving; instead he chose to defend himself. As if I really believed he drove too fast. He snapped, “ I don’t drive too fast. What I do is just get it up to speed quickly!” At that point I had a hard time restraining myself. Looking at the speedometer hovering around 62 in a 70 mph zone, a good ten minutes after getting on the highway, all I could say is, “Yes, I guess that must be it.” After all, we were on the highway and how else would I get home?

Dickhead

Andrea and the Hot Dad

A few days ago I was in the car with my friend Andrea. We drove by a house with a guy out front that we had previously seen while taking the girls trick-or-treating. Since then Andrea refers to him as "the hot dad."

Andrea- "Look, it's Hot Dad."

Me- "Oh yeah?"

Andrea- "Yeah, mowing. I'd like to hit that."

My Favorite Blog

A few years ago, my friend Lori sent me a link to what is my absolute favorite blog. Lori has a great sense of humor and told me that the woman that writes this particular blog is hilarious. Lori also gave her the best endorsement of all saying "She's the only person on the internet that I would have an interest in meeting in real life." Considering that Lori refused to accompany her mom and sister for dinner with Tom and Roseanne (yes, that Roseanne) that's pretty big.

Erin is the author and you can visit her blog here. Here are a few of her entries:

What about weevils, can weevils live on people?


So yeah, hey, what's happening? Things are great over here, Randy and I are great, marriage is great. Well, for me, marriage is great for me, I can't speak for Randy. I'm married to a handsome, responsible, functioning member of society-- Randy's married to a woman who didn't wash the up-do out of her hair until six days after the wedding, and only then on account of the fruit flies. Last week Randy's wife hurriedly bit a bunch of Dots in half and stuck them all over his windshield while he pumped gas. Yesterday Randy's wife called him at his office because she filed her taxes all by herself like a big girl (for the fifteenth year in a row) and thought it deserved some validation.

"I almost said fuck it," I told him over the phone, showboating, swatting at my head, "but then I figured I'd be in big trouble next year, what with the 'filing jointly' and whatnot."

"Yeah, good job," Randy said, either distracted or horrified, they sound the same over the phone. They actually sound the same in person, too, I think he must practice that. Either way, he managed to impart exactly the same amount of validation that he might convey had I called to announce I hadn't yet lit a match and held it to the living room drywall that morning. Which is to say, little.

So to sum up: I'm married to a smart, well-adjusted person who gets up every morning to go participate in society and who isn't perpetually herding a small farm of something around on his scalp, and Randy's married to... not that.





"Nah, I really only need them to read..."


I walk barefoot into the laundry room to get my gym clothes, and I kick a piece of lint out of my way... only it turns out to be a live scorpion.

Who was, needless to say, taken aback by my casual bravery.





I managed to bring some sort of crippling intestinal problem home from Mexico last Friday, forcing me to miss a friend's first art gallery show, a formal fundraiser at which I had been promised a mani/pedi and gourmet mac & cheese, and Melati's infamous Tequila Stakes Croquet tournament.

The last time I became markedly ill in Mexico was around eight years ago. A good friend of mine, Jodi, was close to seven months pregnant and desperately wanted to submerge her boiling July fetus in the ocean. Neither one of us ever having actually been pregnant before, and also coincidentally being pretty dumb, we saw no problem with a woman in the third trimester of her first pregnancy driving four hours into a third world country for the weekend.

Sunday morning we had brunch at a beach front restaurant called the Costa Brava where we decided to see exactly how hard we could slap God across the face; chorizo, eggs, ham, chiles rellenos, coffee with cream. Peppers. Salsa. Pork cheeks. Runny cheese. Bring it.

Two hours later I was fighting hard through cold sweats and an intestinal mayday to drive us toward the US border, only slowing down to ninety once I knew for sure we were hypothetically within Medevac range. Jodi was too ill to speak; her husband took her to the emergency room that night where she was treated for extreme dehydration and mind numbing stupidity. Ultimately she was fine. And the baby was fine, a gorgeous boy. A gorgeous boy whose immune system today no doubt rivals that of a Sherman tank.

Several years went by and then the Costa Brava restaurant exploded. I don't mean it suddenly became more popular-- I mean there was a "gas meets lighter" situation late one night and the Costa Brava blew up. My lack of compassion would have made a terminator proud. The rubble is still there, huge chunks of charred concrete and exposed rusted rebar. Every time Randy and I drive by, I can't help it, I have to point.

"That's where Jodi and I ate that time. God, were we sick," I shake my head, "Tacos de cabeza... warm lettuce..." and I stop, unable to go on. Randy pats my knee. It's okay, baby, he seems to be saying, It's okay. You're just an idiot.

I haven't talked to Jodi in a few years, she moved to the other side of town and we fell out of touch. I think about her every time my stomach involuntarily churns in front of the Costa Brava concrete mountain, though. I wonder if she takes her family to Mexico. I wonder if she tells her son, now a veritable child, about the time he made the trek in her belly.

"That's the Texaco station," she might say, passing quickly through Ajo, "where I almost accidentally shat you out in the parking lot."

"That's the restaurant," she might say, pointing as I do at the wreckage, "where Mommy ate something squishy called 'tripe' and chased it with a quart of milk. That's the place," she might whisper, still pointing, "your Mommy had to set on fire."

May Day

The following is a conversation with a guy friend and some others about May Day:


Other person- "So, do you remember May Day and being a kid? Ringing the door bell, leaving the basket and then running?"

GF- "Oh, we were supposed to leave a basket?"

My Friends are a Class Act all the Way

Andrea- “ So, I went to court this morning and I brought jeans and a t-shirt to change into after. Then I went back to my office and closed the door to change. I slid on the jeans that I’d worn a few days before and realized that there was something inside of them. A soft bulge along the back of my thigh. So I shook my pant leg until it fell out and I saw that it was the dirty underwear that I’d worn a few days before.”

The Pajina Monologues

Sweet little baby Marin is now 18 months old. All parents know that 18 months can be a difficult age, that’s when the tantrums generally kick in, but toddlers this age are also so sweet and funny. Although 18 months is better known for tantrums than anything, I think it should also be recognized as the “OCD period”. This is the stage where an open cabinet door must be slammed shut immediately, even if Mommy’s head happens to be stuck in there at the time. The door must close.

Except for all the tantrums, door slamming, and poopy pants, Marin is generally a pleasant companion. She cuddles and gives big kisses and hugs. She dances and tries to sing. If all that isn’t enough then we have the cute little baby voice as well saying, “Hewo” whenever she finds a cell phone and “Yewo” when asked to name any color. When Marin is hungry she will take me by the hand to the kitchen, gesture wildly towards the cabinets and refrigerator and say, “EEEEEE!” That’s baby for ‘eat’. When it’s time for a nap, Marin walks to the stairs yelling, “Ni ni!”

Marin frequently gets a hold of things that she is not supposed to have. Usually she will look at me, smile and run. Lately she has been winning the race that unless I happen to have a surrogate chaser available at the time. If it’s just me, (I’m back on crutches) I realize that I can’t easily catch her and I wait her out. Or I try to trick her to lure her close enough to snatch her. She usually watches me from a safe distance and smiles.

If Marin manages to get her hands on the baby wipe container she will sit quietly and carefully unload every single wipe. Sometimes she seems to recognize her own weakness and will instead bring me the baby wipe container saying “uh-oh, uh-oh” and “hewr”. “Uh-oh” is frequently a warning that she is about to get into something so she knows she had better hand it over before she gives in to the temptation.

A few days ago I told Marin that her big brother Noah was coming to see her and she said, “I know.” Despite being just 18 months old, she seems surprisingly well versed on the happenings around the house. I’m really going to miss it when everyone in this house is speaking proper English.

Claire and Katie can pronounce most things now but sometimes they still say funny things. Katie had an experience at school recently when a little boy walked into the bathroom while she was washing her hands. The little boy proceeded to pee right in front of her. Katie thought it was funny and has been talking about it ever since.

Katie- “I saw Ian’s butt.”
Me- “Oh, yeah?”
Katie- “Yeah. And he had a nut hanging down.”

I finally got tired of Katie talking about “the nut” that I broke down and told her the proper names for both boy’s and girl’s anatomy. This knowledge was thrilling for Katie and she couldn’t wait to tell Claire what she knew. Just briefly Katie appeared to be drunken with the power of knowing more than her big sister. She decided to fill Claire in at the dinner table.

Katie- “Claire, do you know that girls have pajinas? That’s what the butt part’s called. A pajina.”

Then she continued, sounding as if she was giving a detailed job description for a gynecologist. Which, by the way, we did not discuss and I have no idea where this came from.

Katie- “And did you know there are some doctors whose job it is, is to look at pajinas?”

Claire- "Yeah, and they look and they say, 'Hey, your pajina’s not workiing!"

Not That There's Anything Wrong With It

My friend Andrea is in the process of moving to the town that I live in. Last weekend Andrea needed some more cleaning supplies from the store. We headed out in her car, which can be risky since she is a big-time tailgater. We were coming up to an intersection when the light turned yellow, which in turn caused Andrea to attempt to launch me through the windshield.

I turned to give her a dirty look and Andrea shrugged.
Andrea- “I don’t like running red lights.”
Me- “Do you like getting rear-ended?”
Andrea just gave me a blank look.
Me- “I guess it depends on who’s asking.”
The blank look was replaced be a dirty look of her own.

We managed to make it to the local discount store and shopped for stuff for Andrea’s new house. I was standing in line behind Andrea holding her shelf paper when the checker began ringing her stuff up. He looked at us and asked, “Will this be all together?” It was obvious at that point that he must have thought that we were a couple. We thought that was kind of funny.

The thing is that I already promised to help caulk her tub. Really.

What Kind of Monster Does She Think I Am?

Today I had the baby in the bathroom with me while I took a bath. Unfortunately, she was not the only member of the audience. There was also a cricket waiting patiently to hop at me given half a chance. The baby is not a big fan of the insect world so she gave the cricket a wide berth.

Her sisters have pointed out crickets to her and they think it’s funny when she points and says “Ewww! Ewww!” Of course, I think it’s funny as well. She doesn’t act like she is merely repeating her sisters; she seems to be truly offended by the presence of the crickets.

So if I know there is a cricket in the house, I will ask her where the bug is. Then she’ll point, say “Eww!” and generally avoid going anywhere near it. So then I might ask her if she wants to get the bug. Of course she’s horrified at the notion and she’ll say “No!”

After my bath, I was in the kitchen with the baby, fixing her bottle. She was standing a few feet away, bending over by something on the floor. I walked over to see what she had found and it was a cricket. It was on its back and not moving. I think that must have been the reason that the baby didn’t immediately recognize it. I grabbed the flyswatter and all of a sudden it came back to life. The baby stood way back as I escorted, via flyswatter, the cricket out the back door.

After feeding the baby lunch, I cut up a brownie and put it in a bowl for her. She’s generally a fan of anything sweet so I thought she would like it. I didn’t even give any thought to the fact that she had never had a brownie before. I set the bowl on a rug where she likes to sit and eat snacks.

Me- “Look Baby, it’s a brownie for you. It’s good.”
Baby, looks in bowl, chuckles and refuses to get near it again.
Me- “Come eat your brownie. It’s good.”
Baby- “No!” She was also eyeing the bowl with suspicion.

That’s when I realized what was going on. The baby thought I was giving her a bowl full of crickets.

My Mom, the Entomologist

I started my day off with a load of laundry. Normally that’s non-eventful but today I was barefoot and it’s cricket season. There is nothing that crickets like better than hiding in a pile of dirty laundry. You’d think that at some point I would remember that but no. The baby was standing on the back porch watching me as I threw stuff in the washer. Then, out of nowhere, a cricket hopped directly on top of my bare foot. I started screaming and shaking my foot. The baby thought it was a new game and she started shrieking and laughing.

A little later I walked into the kitchen and saw something on the floor. I looked closer and discovered that it was a big, nasty cricket leg.

I was talking to my mom and complaining about the crickets. I told her about the cricket on my foot and the lone leg. It was like a scene from an insect horror movie.

Me- “It was just the leg. How does that happen? I mean, where is the rest of the cricket?”

Mom- “I don’t know. Did you know that when crickets have sex they rub their back legs together? Maybe the sex got a little rough.”

Lynne Resists Technology

My sister had the ADT guy over today to give her a quote on an alarm system. He was going over all the different types of equipment that they had available for their systems.


ADT guy- “We have keypads or you can even have the kind of controller that you talk to.”

Lynne- “I can’t even figure out how to talk to my phone. I sure as hell don’t need something electronic in my wall talking to me and I DON’T EVEN WANT TO EXPLAIN THAT ONE.”

Next Time I'n Not Settling For Anything Less Than Skipper....

Claire and Katie are playing with Barbie’s. I started making comments about their dialogue and what their dolls were up to. It usually irritates them and therefore is payback for some of the things they do to irritate me.

Me- “Hey, why is Barbie going to the mall AGAIN? Did she forget something there? Is there a big sale?”

Claire and Katie- “MOMMY!”

Me- “What? I just want to play Barbie too.”

Claire- “No, you can’t. You don’t have the right kind of voice.”

I try to change my voice to something sounding close to a six-year old’s- “Yes, I do. See?”

Claire and Katie whisper and laugh.

Claire- “Ok, we’ll let you play.”

Claire brings me a dollhouse cat.

Me- “A cat? I don’t want to be a CAT.”

Claire, trying to sell me on the cat- “It’s ok. You can be the dog, too. Then when the dog comes along you’re a TALKING CAT.”

Claire Channels Doris Day

My friend Ann has an odd little quirk. When she has been drinking, she starts using expressions that she would never normally use in conversation. The kinds of expressions that you usually only hear from old people, such as ‘when it gets down to brass tacks’.

Ann was visiting recently and it was apparent that she had consumed a couple of drinks before her arrival. She requested a beer and I gave it to her. It was obvious that she was not in any shape to drive anyway. I told her that she could not drive herself home and she was not pleased with me. She finally agreed to a ride but was still annoyed. I kept expecting her to threaten to ‘clean my clock’ or ‘fix my wagon’.

Claire also uses old-fashioned expressions on occasion. There is just something so cute about a little kid saying things like 'that would be lovely.' Of course there was the time she referred to a particular kind of cracker as ‘delightful’. She has been adding others as well. I think it might have to do with her fondness for Doris Day movies, which is also odd, come to think of it.

Yesterday she informed me that she told one of her friends that her birthday party was this weekend instead of next.

Claire- “I told Hallie that my party is THIS Saturday, not next.”

Me- “Uh-oh. You’re going to have to go back over and tell her it’s next weekend.”

Claire- “I know. And I heard her mom tell her that they needed to go out and buy me a present right away.”

Me- “Oh, no.”

Claire- “I know. I’m really in a pickle now.”

I’m pretty sure she was sober.

T.P. for Dave's Bunghole (sorry about the Beavis and Butthead reference, but I couldn't resist)

Buying toilet paper is something that I find irritating. If I am in a hurry, I tend to just grab some Charmin. If I am not in such a rush, I might try to figure out which package is actually the best buy. There are usually several that are marked down at any given time. I end up frustrated because of the difficulty in comparing the different products.

We have regular rolls, big rolls, double rolls, gigantic rolls, mega-rolls and the ever-present ‘large rolls.” We also have a variety of package sizes to confuse the issue, of bathroom tissue, even further. Are you better off buying 9 large rolls versus 12 double rolls for $5.99? I certainly don’t know. Does anyone?

I saw a toilet paper commercial a couple of weeks ago that was extolling the virtues of their new and stronger toilet paper. They were claiming that it was far stronger than their leading competitor. I have never given any thought to the strength of my toilet paper. I’m not using toilet paper for any jobs that might require it to be stronger than the average roll. I briefly wondered exactly who might be concerned that their toilet paper wasn’t strong enough. My concerns are more along the lines of whether it is a decent value, softness and if I can go for more than three hours without putting a new roll on the holder. What with the mechanical difficulty of performing this task, I seem to be the only one in the house that is competent to perform the task. Those of you out there with teenagers know what I’m talking about. For some reason, my teenager will simply balance the new roll on top of the empty one. If I did not intervene, I’m quite sure that everyone else in the house would assume that is just how we do things now.

The bottom line (pardon the pun) is that evidently, strength CAN be an issue.

I saw Dave and Ann a few days ago and believe it or not, he was complaining about toilet paper.
Dave previously on another subject but transitioning to his latest concern-“Speaking of disgusting, have you tried that Member’s Mark” toilet paper?”
Me- “No, why? What’s wrong with it?
Dave- “It’s just thin and weak. My fingers break through it. Then it just kind of rolls up in my crack.”
Me- “Hmm.”
Ann- “That’s disgusting. Do you wash well after that?”
Dave- “Not really.”

Katie Clears Things Up

I was talking to Claire after school and quizzing her on what she knew.

Me- “What does Daddy do?”
Claire- “Nothing.”
Me- “No, I mean for a job.”
Claire- “Nothing.”
Katie answers for her sister- “Drinks beer.”

Science Questions

Claire- "Mommy? What’s a pulse?"

Katie, deciding to answer before I get a chance- "I know what it is, Claire. It’s what animals have, what has short nails on it."