- Next Time I’ll Just Stay Home and Watch a Movie
- Ode to the 1996 Honda Civic with the Crayon Stains on the Back Seat and the Seat Belts that Always Get Stuck and the Broken Radio Dial
- Things You Should Not Google Image Search
- You’ve Got to Try New Things All the Tiiiiime
- The Old Switcharoo
- Golden Eye
- Another Anniversary, Another ZZ Plant to Kill
- The Sigourney Show
- When Machines Rule the Earth
- Bombs Away
Ode to the 1996 Honda Civic with the Crayon Stains on the Back Seat and the Seat Belts that Always Get Stuck and the Broken Radio Dial
My car, my sweet car…has been making a low, rumbly sound when I accelerate. Over time, the noise has become noisier. I keep turning the radio up, but the rumbling is fiercely competitive. I think I need a new stereo.
My car, my sweet car…is white. It attracts these small flies. The flies do not bite and they do not buzz. They do make the children shriek and scream. I think I need a new paint job. Lime green or sunshine yellow or the color of whispers and congeniality.
My car, my sweet car…has a lazy right side. The electric window will not go down, no matter how many times I press the button. The right window will go down just fine, but will not slide back up if it comes in contact with any precipitation. I think I need a sunroof, so I can throw the toll bridge tokens out from the top.
My car, my sweet car…is strewn with half-finished art projects, CDs without cases, comic books, baby dolls, and pens. My God, the pens. If ever I owned a pen, it is now hidden in the crevices of the car seats and the cushions. And probably dried up. I think I need a live-in car maid. And some new pens.
My car, my sweet car…has a Minnesota-sized mosquito squished into the driver’s side windshield. It reminds me that I took its life without thinking, only with squishing. It was probably just looking for a way out. Or my blood. I think I need a better bug attitude.
My car, my sweet car…was my father’s before it was mine, and that is why I love it, with all its quirks and irks. Somewhere beneath the ever-increasing rumbling, my car is full of the memories of adolescence. My sweet car.
Note to self: if anyone, even your mother, tells you to google image search the words “foot” and “callus,” you must pick up the hammer and smash the computer screen, then, just to be safe, smash it a few more times.
The universe is a big place. My mind is a small place. There is no room for pictures of foot calluses.
The kids know that Santa and the Easter Bunny do not come to our house, and that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real (they still want money in exchange for baby teeth, though!). The children are not bribed by Elf on a Shelf. They also know (I think they know) that there are no monsters under the bed and that the Scooby Doo villains are really just people wearing masks. You might say, there is not a lot of magic in our children’s lives, but if you did say that, you would be wrong.
Because we have the magic of vegetables.
Yes, that’s what I said.
I’ve instilled some fairly white lies that I call “magic” into eating their vegetables. Obviously, carrots make you see better. But there are so many other ways that vegetables are good for you. I’m no scientist, but I BELIEVE in this magic.
“Wow, you are eating a lot of onions. I wonder how high you will be able to jump tomorrow!” “Does your owie hurt? Let’s put a band-aid on it and eat some tomatoes.” “Did you just open that door? You must have been eating your broccoli again.” I am so good at this game.
I wish I could get them to try some other vegetables using the magic system. Any ideas for the superpowers behind rutabaga or Brussels sprouts?
What I received in the mail today:
What I ordered:
I really want those pens. (And the other junk I ordered. But most of all the pens.)
The thirteenth anniversary present is “traditionally” stuff made of lace. My husband almost never wears lace, and his use of doilies is minimal at best, so I decided to go the less-traditional route and give him a houseplant.
I took the also non-traditional route of ordering the houseplant from a bamboo seller on Amazon.
The Amazon seller replied fairly quickly:
I did not call. I don’t know what I would say to the person or how the person would understand me.
But the plant did arrive, two days later, as (kind of) indicated in the email.
That’s when my husband Z told me that the plant ZZ is one I have bought for him two times in the past and has two times died. I would have thought a ZZ plant would be hardier than that.
I’ll try to remember that the fourteenth anniversary is ivory. Maybe I’ll get him a piano key or a walrus tusk or something useful for a change.
Real life conversations with my three-year-old.
In the car:
S: Mom, can I have my window open please?
Me: No, it’s cold out and I have the heat on.
S: I don’t love you anymore.
In her sister’s room:
S: Look at this book. That’s a nice book. You better put it up high where I can’t reach it.
Reading a pop-up book that won’t close properly:
S: My book isn’t closing.
My book isn’t closing.
My book isn’t closing.
My book isn’t closing.
My Book Isn’t Closing.
MY BOOK ISN’T CLOSING!
Me: Can I help you with your book?
S: Don’t talk to me!
On the same book, a bit earlier:
S: This book is broken. I broke it when I was a baby.
Me: You just got this book a month ago.
S: I broke it a month ago when I was a baby.
When something suspicious is going on:
Me: Um, what are you doing over there?
S: Can you not look at me right now?
Best of all:
S: Mom? I love you forever.
And a close second:
S: Mom, I am super duper tired. I want to go to sleep now.
I just cheated on my pharmacist.
After a week of war against what I deemed to be yet-another-head-cold, I finally caved (i.e., panicked myself into a frenzy — I do that, in case it wasn’t already known. I have a thing. I have a lot of things…) and went to the doctor tonight.
The Sanford Walk-in Clinic’s website said the wait time was 45 minutes. I grabbed a book on my way out the door.
Then I passed an urgent care place in a strip mall. There were no cars in the parking light and a neon sign in the window spelled out, “OPEN.” I went in to a dimly lit little reception area where they accepted my insurance and the nurse waited for me to take my coat off because she was ready before I was.
After Andy checked out my ears, sinuses, throat, and lungs, he diagnosed me with bronchitis and a sinus infection. He asked me if I wanted a prescription called in to a pharmacy or if I wanted to use a machine in the hallway.
A machine in the hallway.
I love my pharmacist. She knows my prescriptions, my history, my anxiety, and practically has my home phone number from two houses ago memorized because I lost my CVS card ages ago (and anyway, I have no idea how to cash in on that thing).
But a machine in the hallway.
I don’t know about you, but when I’m sick, I’d rather not stop at a hundred different places plus the wait around time while the scrip is filled.
I used the machine in the hallway.
Every time a patient uses the machine in the hallway, somewhere in the world a pharmacist loses his or her wings.
Sorry, my pharmacist friends. I promise not to abandon you entirely. But the machine in the hallway was pretty awesome. And it was located not ten feet from another fine machine — the Keurig.
Here is a conversation I had tonight with my three-and-a-half-year-old, upon getting home from work.
“Mom, how come all your bombs are white?”
“I don’t know. Just because.”
“You should get some other color bombs.”
“Why? Don’t you like white?”
“Because other color bombs would be cooler.”
“Like what color?”
“Like blue! You should have blue bombs!”
“I don’t have any blue bombs.”
“Do you have any more colorful bombs?”
“I have tan bombs.”
“Hand bombs? You put bombs on your hands?!?”
“No, not hand. Tan. The color tan. Like brown only lighter.”
“Oh, I thought you were going to wear bombs on your hands. You’re a silly mom!”
What is the first thing you do when you get home from work? Because for me, the first thing I do is discard my bombs. And I’ll let you guess what that means.