Well, we got a new puppy.
So now I'm up to my ears in all different kinds of excrement. Yum!
Last night, after cleaning my boys' room and getting them in bed, I went to shut the closet door. I was finishing up a few things so I could plop in the tub and read Eclipse for the 4th time. Anyway, I stepped in something squishy and warm, and no, it wasn't pee.
I screamed for my husband and hopped one-footed to the bathroom so I could get it off. If you've never witnessed a 250 pound half-naked woman hopping down a hallway then hallelujah, because I fear both my husband and dog are scarred for life.
I probably registered a 7.0 on the Richter Scale.
After picking my son up from school today he told me about all of the other children beating him up. He's been known to elaborate quite a bit, but I let him continue. He said "All of the girls and three boys beat me up. This is where they beated me up" and showed me his thumb. I said "Well, I guess we need to amputate it." He said "Yeah, and I need an aquamarine 'inja suit so I can heeeeeeya them."
I tell you, he would've done Chuck Norris proud. My son's first roundhouse kick and no one saw it.
A few weeks ago we were eating dinner and he refused to go to the bathroom by himself. "What if a purple mustached man grabs me?" My husband felt compelled to say "What's that over there?!" My son went under the table and refused to come out. I told him we were going to Nana's the next day and he said "Can't go, Mom. I had a stroke."
Next thing I know he'll probably say he has Alzheimer's or cervical cancer.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
March 1, 2010
Well, it's freezing. Usually March in Texas means Daisy Dukes and weenie roasts. Alas, it keeps snowing and raining and snowing and raining. This precipitation is killing me.
Usually I hate warm (or even nice!) weather because the bees come out. It's my personal belief that bees sniff me out like pigs searching for truffles. I've never been stung and plan to keep it that way. Damn bees. Same goes for wasps, but at least they don't chase me.
Before I put myself in a Snuggie-induced coma I have to share a conversation between my older son and myself.
Him: Mom, you can't find me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: No, you can't. You can't see me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: How?
Me: Because I'm magic. I'm like Santa Claus.
Him: No you're not, because if you were you'd bring me presents.
Really? Sometimes I wonder if my son is really a senior citizen in a four year old body. All of the stereotypical behaviors of a geriatric man are there: pants pulled up to the boob area, unknowingly passing gas, "I can't hear the TV," "I can't eat that," complaining when others are in the yard, and perhaps the best one, how he gives himself a combover every morning.
He also loves to douse himself with Old Spice. If only he had some of the hair cream that my Pop uses.
This morning I had on my men's 5X sweats and stuffed myself into the only pair of jeans I could find so I could run some errands. I filled up my coffee cup and we headed to the post office. Now you'd think that our puny town could afford to fill the enormous dips in the Post Office driveway, but they opt not to. I suppose they think everyone wishes to turn their vehicle into a mechanical bull. Anyway, my dear, sweet husband often forgets that a minivan does not ride like his truck. He came flying out of the drive and my coffee went flying as well. And spilled all under my left butt cheek.
Pants that are too-tight are uncomfortable by themselves, but when they're damp and smell of old coffee they're even worse. We went to eat lunch, and yes, I walked into the restaurant looking like I'd peed my pants.
Needless to say, when we got home the sweatpants returned.
Until next time...
Usually I hate warm (or even nice!) weather because the bees come out. It's my personal belief that bees sniff me out like pigs searching for truffles. I've never been stung and plan to keep it that way. Damn bees. Same goes for wasps, but at least they don't chase me.
Before I put myself in a Snuggie-induced coma I have to share a conversation between my older son and myself.
Him: Mom, you can't find me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: No, you can't. You can't see me.
Me: Yes, I can.
Him: How?
Me: Because I'm magic. I'm like Santa Claus.
Him: No you're not, because if you were you'd bring me presents.
Really? Sometimes I wonder if my son is really a senior citizen in a four year old body. All of the stereotypical behaviors of a geriatric man are there: pants pulled up to the boob area, unknowingly passing gas, "I can't hear the TV," "I can't eat that," complaining when others are in the yard, and perhaps the best one, how he gives himself a combover every morning.
He also loves to douse himself with Old Spice. If only he had some of the hair cream that my Pop uses.
This morning I had on my men's 5X sweats and stuffed myself into the only pair of jeans I could find so I could run some errands. I filled up my coffee cup and we headed to the post office. Now you'd think that our puny town could afford to fill the enormous dips in the Post Office driveway, but they opt not to. I suppose they think everyone wishes to turn their vehicle into a mechanical bull. Anyway, my dear, sweet husband often forgets that a minivan does not ride like his truck. He came flying out of the drive and my coffee went flying as well. And spilled all under my left butt cheek.
Pants that are too-tight are uncomfortable by themselves, but when they're damp and smell of old coffee they're even worse. We went to eat lunch, and yes, I walked into the restaurant looking like I'd peed my pants.
Needless to say, when we got home the sweatpants returned.
Until next time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)