A few weeks ago, My Sweetie and I were having a conversation. And in the midst of this conversation, he looked at me calmly and stated, "You know, I believe you are going to go to Hell."
I, of course, ask him, "You're telling me this why?"
He responds with, "You're not a very nice person."
I laughed. "Fourteen and a half years in, and you're just figuring this out? I'm good!"
We both laughed.
Showing posts with label mumplelove. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mumplelove. Show all posts
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Beggars Can't Be Choosers
Again with the Chaos.
Michelle shows up one day last week--she doesn't usually just "drop in"--so we knew something was up.
She begins the conversation with, "I was just hit on." there's a long pause, then, "at the soup kitchen!" And she's disgusted that this happened.
Apparently even the indigent & disabled have cellphones and are clamoring for her number. She has steadfastly refused all this guy's (gawd, I'm hoping it's a guy, although, now that I'm thinking about it, she was never actually stated that "he" was) advances. Even when "he's" tried to get her mother to stage a celibacy intervention.
Chaos loves to tell stories backwards--meaning she starts at the end and then works her way to the beginning. And then, it just gets stranger.
It's sloppy joe night at the soup kitchen, and Omi, who spawned this Chaos, donates cash so they can "eat out."
Chaos is a germophobe, so even the idea that she's eating in a church basement soup kitchen is laugh worthy. She also questions the contents of any meal not prepared at the local supermarket deli, and "loose meat" sammiches are always in the questionable content category.
So they find seats, and the soup kitchen helpers--who were all cafeteria ladies in previous lives--send over their sammiches. The lady plunks the plate in front of Chaos, Queen of Germophobes, and pats the sloppy joe. Yes, she manhandles a severe germophobe's sammich.
Later in the meal, the cafeteria lady offers coffee. Chaos accepts, thinking that scalding liquid will kill any lingering germs in her stomach....cafeteria lady pulls the coffee mug close enough to pour...with her finger entirely inside the mug.
Poor Chaos. Her one fancy meal of the month...covered in cafeteria lady cooties and illicit indigents.
Michelle shows up one day last week--she doesn't usually just "drop in"--so we knew something was up.
She begins the conversation with, "I was just hit on." there's a long pause, then, "at the soup kitchen!" And she's disgusted that this happened.
Apparently even the indigent & disabled have cellphones and are clamoring for her number. She has steadfastly refused all this guy's (gawd, I'm hoping it's a guy, although, now that I'm thinking about it, she was never actually stated that "he" was) advances. Even when "he's" tried to get her mother to stage a celibacy intervention.
Chaos loves to tell stories backwards--meaning she starts at the end and then works her way to the beginning. And then, it just gets stranger.
It's sloppy joe night at the soup kitchen, and Omi, who spawned this Chaos, donates cash so they can "eat out."
Chaos is a germophobe, so even the idea that she's eating in a church basement soup kitchen is laugh worthy. She also questions the contents of any meal not prepared at the local supermarket deli, and "loose meat" sammiches are always in the questionable content category.
So they find seats, and the soup kitchen helpers--who were all cafeteria ladies in previous lives--send over their sammiches. The lady plunks the plate in front of Chaos, Queen of Germophobes, and pats the sloppy joe. Yes, she manhandles a severe germophobe's sammich.
Later in the meal, the cafeteria lady offers coffee. Chaos accepts, thinking that scalding liquid will kill any lingering germs in her stomach....cafeteria lady pulls the coffee mug close enough to pour...with her finger entirely inside the mug.
Poor Chaos. Her one fancy meal of the month...covered in cafeteria lady cooties and illicit indigents.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Tab A
It's been over a month...and I'm just now deciding that yes, I do have a blog and I do need to actually write something on it.
I've been busy, if busy means my pain levels are up, and my head feels like it's been stuffed with rags every day.
The Howler is growing up. On her birthday, this became VERY evident. The following week, she lost another tooth. This is just flat-out wrong. 10 year olds are not supposed to be doing that...and if you're doing that, you shouldn't also have holes in your head where the extra parts are falling out.
I look like I'm dealing with it really well, and "oh, how lucky she is to have a mom like me" (not batshit crazy, dumping my issues with her growing up onto her) but it's hard. When it happened, I wanted to jump up and down in a Yosemite Sam tantrum and curse and swear and just say no. I didn't, because she cried when it happened, and I couldn't make it about me. And we knew it was going to happen, I had just been hoping I would have a few more months.
But you get what you pay for in this instance, and dammit! We didn't pay nothing. So.
What happened next has been interesting. And no matter what the experts say about answering the questions they're asking, regardless of your impressions of how young they are when they ask...I just couldn't fully answer the question she asked later that week.
Yes, she asked me specifically, "how do you make a baby?" I simply could not explain to her that "tab A goes into slot B." I just couldn't. I don't remember the exact wording I used; I did answer the question, I just didn't get as specific as maybe I should have. So sue me.
Her next question was even better: "Isn't it gross?"
I'm a terrible mother, because I laughed. I couldn't help it.
The conversation got worse, if you can imagine. She asked if it took two or three times of having "a sex" before you could make a baby...and she asked about the "Life, A Beautiful Choice" signs she's seen in yards and on billboards.
Kill me now. I got to try and explain abortion to a 4th grader. Yowza!
Finally, she moved in for the kill (as if the preceding conversation wasn't hard enough!)
She grinned maniacally, and said, "Do you remember that morning a few years ago, when I woke up really early and came over to your room?"
I am so screwed.
I've been busy, if busy means my pain levels are up, and my head feels like it's been stuffed with rags every day.
The Howler is growing up. On her birthday, this became VERY evident. The following week, she lost another tooth. This is just flat-out wrong. 10 year olds are not supposed to be doing that...and if you're doing that, you shouldn't also have holes in your head where the extra parts are falling out.
I look like I'm dealing with it really well, and "oh, how lucky she is to have a mom like me" (not batshit crazy, dumping my issues with her growing up onto her) but it's hard. When it happened, I wanted to jump up and down in a Yosemite Sam tantrum and curse and swear and just say no. I didn't, because she cried when it happened, and I couldn't make it about me. And we knew it was going to happen, I had just been hoping I would have a few more months.
But you get what you pay for in this instance, and dammit! We didn't pay nothing. So.
What happened next has been interesting. And no matter what the experts say about answering the questions they're asking, regardless of your impressions of how young they are when they ask...I just couldn't fully answer the question she asked later that week.
Yes, she asked me specifically, "how do you make a baby?" I simply could not explain to her that "tab A goes into slot B." I just couldn't. I don't remember the exact wording I used; I did answer the question, I just didn't get as specific as maybe I should have. So sue me.
Her next question was even better: "Isn't it gross?"
I'm a terrible mother, because I laughed. I couldn't help it.
The conversation got worse, if you can imagine. She asked if it took two or three times of having "a sex" before you could make a baby...and she asked about the "Life, A Beautiful Choice" signs she's seen in yards and on billboards.
Kill me now. I got to try and explain abortion to a 4th grader. Yowza!
Finally, she moved in for the kill (as if the preceding conversation wasn't hard enough!)
She grinned maniacally, and said, "Do you remember that morning a few years ago, when I woke up really early and came over to your room?"
I am so screwed.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Viral
If you hadn't noticed, it's cold & flu season. And that means, in Retail Hell, it's also paranoia time.
What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.
The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.
With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.
Er, uhm, NO.
When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.
'nuff said.
What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.
The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.
With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.
Er, uhm, NO.
When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.
'nuff said.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Who's On First?
My Sweetie has been married before. Before me, I mean. His first wife was, basically, his HS sweetheart. They were on-again-off-again for their entire history. And they got married (by his admission) because both of their families thought that they should be married, not just shacked up. Their actual marriage lasted less than a year, although they were still together after the divorce. (He'll be the first to admit that his so-called romatic history is fraught with strangeness. Lifetime Channel Movie-of-the-Week strangeness. If someone had been murdered, Ann Rule would love this story strangeness.)
When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.
Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.
Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)
That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:
I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.
Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)
It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?
My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.
No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.
My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.
Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.
My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.
Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.
The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)
And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.
When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.
Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.
Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)
That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:
I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.
Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)
It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?
My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.
No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.
My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.
Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.
My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.
Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.
The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)
And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Irony and the Ecstasy
Last night, the Toad was being particularly annoying. Okay, he's been particularly annoying all week, but last night, I had an opportunity...
The Howler had left the room, and we were discussing her Amazon.com search faux-pas...for the record, if you type in "blow ups" on their toy page, you get listings (thank God, not pictures) of blow ups. Dolls. For sex. And unless you want to be the one to explain that to my 8 year old, don't let her go there again. (and for the record, her father was the one in charge at the time, not me. I know better.)
Anyway, the Toad announced that he can help police her web searches in the future.
I had to ask, "Do you really think, Mr. $700+ in PPV Porn, that YOU are qualified to oversee and censor what she might find?"
His response? "I paid you back...and I am apparently still paying!"
The conversation turned at some point, to My Sweetie's upcoming birthday in January. The Toad, being a math genius, hadn't yet figured out the bestest part of his parents' birthdays.
Being the deviant I am, I take the opportunity to inform him...but My Sweetie, ever mortified by my skeeving out the Toad in this manner, reminds me that the Howler is still within earshot.
I decide that the most fun will be had by drawing a carefully planned picture for the Toad, and watching as the knowledge permeates his thick skull.
I told him to consider the number 9. Just 9. Then, I asked him when My Sweetie's birthday is. (January 6) Now, remember the number 9. And what takes 9 months? His eyebrow went up. The fear in his eyes grew. My Sweetie sat still, watching for the train to smack the boy in the raised eyebrow. I asked him when my birthday was. (October 3)
The Toad began screaming as the full knowledge (and mental image) hit him. My parents, apparently, were celebrating My Sweetie's coming into the world, whether they knew it or not.
Oh, yes, I am evil.
The Howler had left the room, and we were discussing her Amazon.com search faux-pas...for the record, if you type in "blow ups" on their toy page, you get listings (thank God, not pictures) of blow ups. Dolls. For sex. And unless you want to be the one to explain that to my 8 year old, don't let her go there again. (and for the record, her father was the one in charge at the time, not me. I know better.)
Anyway, the Toad announced that he can help police her web searches in the future.
I had to ask, "Do you really think, Mr. $700+ in PPV Porn, that YOU are qualified to oversee and censor what she might find?"
His response? "I paid you back...and I am apparently still paying!"
The conversation turned at some point, to My Sweetie's upcoming birthday in January. The Toad, being a math genius, hadn't yet figured out the bestest part of his parents' birthdays.
Being the deviant I am, I take the opportunity to inform him...but My Sweetie, ever mortified by my skeeving out the Toad in this manner, reminds me that the Howler is still within earshot.
I decide that the most fun will be had by drawing a carefully planned picture for the Toad, and watching as the knowledge permeates his thick skull.
I told him to consider the number 9. Just 9. Then, I asked him when My Sweetie's birthday is. (January 6) Now, remember the number 9. And what takes 9 months? His eyebrow went up. The fear in his eyes grew. My Sweetie sat still, watching for the train to smack the boy in the raised eyebrow. I asked him when my birthday was. (October 3)
The Toad began screaming as the full knowledge (and mental image) hit him. My parents, apparently, were celebrating My Sweetie's coming into the world, whether they knew it or not.
Oh, yes, I am evil.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
27 Days to Go
Today wasn't so bad. Since we were both on a mission from God, he was busy. He wasn't bothering me...much.
Now, though, he's trying to get thru to the unemployment hotline, to see if he can open the claim now, or if he has to wait until this weekend.
"We're sorry. Due to current call volume, all lines are busy. Please call again at a later time."
And he's grumping around about it.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, he's got big-big man plans: the truck needs inspected, and it's new driver's license time. I send a small thank you to the DMV.
Now, though, he's trying to get thru to the unemployment hotline, to see if he can open the claim now, or if he has to wait until this weekend.
"We're sorry. Due to current call volume, all lines are busy. Please call again at a later time."
And he's grumping around about it.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, he's got big-big man plans: the truck needs inspected, and it's new driver's license time. I send a small thank you to the DMV.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Day 2, part 2
At some point yesterday or today, My Sweetie sez, "Geez. I think I've got a bad case of the mid-40's."
I sez, "Oh?" giggle
He sez, "Yeah, and the doc says there's no hope for a cure."
giggle
I sez, "Oh?" giggle
He sez, "Yeah, and the doc says there's no hope for a cure."
giggle
Day 2
With 28 more to go. Sheesh.
Yesterday wasn't bad because I slept in, while he was busy cleaning the kitchen top to bottom. He did get a bit on my nerves with his chatting away to the cats (and sometimes me) and his hyperactivity. But not like today.
Today, I was up, awake, and dressed to go do some Christmas shopping. Okay. We spent about 2 hours together, out in public. Which was fine, and fun, especially in the toy aisles at WalMart.
But then we get home.
And he's still talking.
And talking.
And talking.
I swear that this is God's way of punishing me for my constant blather years ago. (and yes, it WAS TOO years ago.)
He has been talking about EVERY BLESSED MOVE he makes. He claims its to the cats, but I think, secretly, deep down, he's doing it to annoy me.
I suggested that he find one of those bizarre screech-shoot-and-swear manflicks he's always finding, you know the ones I mean. There's an f-bomb, a scream, and an explosion every 3 minutes. Real Academy Award winners, those are.
Anyway. I also suggested that to go with the movie, he could call his hearing-aid-less father, and talk REALLY REALLY REALLY LOUD! to him, while pacing behind me while I try and read.
There's a reason I'm enjoying work right now.
Yesterday wasn't bad because I slept in, while he was busy cleaning the kitchen top to bottom. He did get a bit on my nerves with his chatting away to the cats (and sometimes me) and his hyperactivity. But not like today.
Today, I was up, awake, and dressed to go do some Christmas shopping. Okay. We spent about 2 hours together, out in public. Which was fine, and fun, especially in the toy aisles at WalMart.
But then we get home.
And he's still talking.
And talking.
And talking.
I swear that this is God's way of punishing me for my constant blather years ago. (and yes, it WAS TOO years ago.)
He has been talking about EVERY BLESSED MOVE he makes. He claims its to the cats, but I think, secretly, deep down, he's doing it to annoy me.
I suggested that he find one of those bizarre screech-shoot-and-swear manflicks he's always finding, you know the ones I mean. There's an f-bomb, a scream, and an explosion every 3 minutes. Real Academy Award winners, those are.
Anyway. I also suggested that to go with the movie, he could call his hearing-aid-less father, and talk REALLY REALLY REALLY LOUD! to him, while pacing behind me while I try and read.
There's a reason I'm enjoying work right now.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Trolling the Neighborhood
Apparently, my BFN (best friend neighbor) has decided, again, that she's going to make a play for My Sweetie.
We say that, because yesterday, when I got home from work, the Urchins were up to play with the Howler. And Waif, I guess, had the secret squirrel mission to try and get my Sweetie down to their house. Even after I got home.
We believe that a few years ago, BFN & Loser Boy were the ones to spread the rumors that various neighbors were engaged in illicit adult activities--and that I was the one keeping track of all the children so that the adult hi-jinks could go on. My Sweetie was mentioned sparingly in the rumors, but his name did come up some. I know that these rumors were simply rumors--untrue and very crass (and believe me, I know crass & vulgar.)
This past spring, she made the same attempt, with the same "excuse." She wanted to talk to my Sweetie about her garden. She called and kept him on the phone once for about an hour--yapping on and on about her pretend garden and that she expected My Sweetie to call her when HE went to get his tomatoes, etc, so SHE could go with HIM.
After the crap she was spreading through the neighborhood about my daughter (that the Howler was a vandal and that I was unbalanced) and my 2 hours conversation with her about how Loser Boy doesn't hit her with his fists, and that the 10 year old Waif would know when to call 911 if he ever got "truly out of hand," My Sweetie totally blew her off (not that he had any intention of calling her or going anywhere with her, anyway.)
She didn't call here, nor did she show up. Not even when I was not here.
Yesterday, Waif started telling the Howler to help get her daddy to go down to talk to her Mom about her garden. I'm guessing that this genius in a 40DD bra doesn't understand that it's September, and her pretend garden doesn't need anything now.
The Waif tried to get My Sweetie to go down there herself. The Waif told me that My Sweetie needed to go down to her house to talk to her mom about the garden.
I told the Waif that not only was it our suppertime--we weren't going--but that if her mom needed to talk to US about her garden, she could come up here.
Haven't heard a peep from her, not last night; not today. Go figure.
We say that, because yesterday, when I got home from work, the Urchins were up to play with the Howler. And Waif, I guess, had the secret squirrel mission to try and get my Sweetie down to their house. Even after I got home.
We believe that a few years ago, BFN & Loser Boy were the ones to spread the rumors that various neighbors were engaged in illicit adult activities--and that I was the one keeping track of all the children so that the adult hi-jinks could go on. My Sweetie was mentioned sparingly in the rumors, but his name did come up some. I know that these rumors were simply rumors--untrue and very crass (and believe me, I know crass & vulgar.)
This past spring, she made the same attempt, with the same "excuse." She wanted to talk to my Sweetie about her garden. She called and kept him on the phone once for about an hour--yapping on and on about her pretend garden and that she expected My Sweetie to call her when HE went to get his tomatoes, etc, so SHE could go with HIM.
After the crap she was spreading through the neighborhood about my daughter (that the Howler was a vandal and that I was unbalanced) and my 2 hours conversation with her about how Loser Boy doesn't hit her with his fists, and that the 10 year old Waif would know when to call 911 if he ever got "truly out of hand," My Sweetie totally blew her off (not that he had any intention of calling her or going anywhere with her, anyway.)
She didn't call here, nor did she show up. Not even when I was not here.
Yesterday, Waif started telling the Howler to help get her daddy to go down to talk to her Mom about her garden. I'm guessing that this genius in a 40DD bra doesn't understand that it's September, and her pretend garden doesn't need anything now.
The Waif tried to get My Sweetie to go down there herself. The Waif told me that My Sweetie needed to go down to her house to talk to her mom about the garden.
I told the Waif that not only was it our suppertime--we weren't going--but that if her mom needed to talk to US about her garden, she could come up here.
Haven't heard a peep from her, not last night; not today. Go figure.
Friday, July 23, 2010
We Don't Go Out Much
And this is exactly why:
The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!
It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.
We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)
The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"
Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.
The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.
The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!
It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.
We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)
The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"
Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.
The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Y Chromosome
I love my husband, truly I do.
With that said, someone please explain to me Y when he gets an idea in his head to do something, it must be done EXACTLY THIS MINUTE?! It cannot wait even 10 minutes beyond THIS EXACT MINUTE.
Last evening, he was outside scraping the leaves off the garden beds. (YAY Spring!) He noticed that the grapevine, which should by rights be dead but isn't, needed pruned.
That means that today, when he got home from work, that grapevine MUST BE PRUNED. THIS EXACT MINUTE. Doesn't matter that he's mentioned it, only in passing. Doesn't matter that neither of us knows the how-tos and whereofs of doing it. RIGHT NOW. is the ONLY TIME EVER that he will have to prune it. Tomorrow would be too late. And waiting for me to call, or email, someone who would know would take wayyyyyy to long.
Then he's hurt because I'm grumpy. Go figure.
With that said, someone please explain to me Y when he gets an idea in his head to do something, it must be done EXACTLY THIS MINUTE?! It cannot wait even 10 minutes beyond THIS EXACT MINUTE.
Last evening, he was outside scraping the leaves off the garden beds. (YAY Spring!) He noticed that the grapevine, which should by rights be dead but isn't, needed pruned.
That means that today, when he got home from work, that grapevine MUST BE PRUNED. THIS EXACT MINUTE. Doesn't matter that he's mentioned it, only in passing. Doesn't matter that neither of us knows the how-tos and whereofs of doing it. RIGHT NOW. is the ONLY TIME EVER that he will have to prune it. Tomorrow would be too late. And waiting for me to call, or email, someone who would know would take wayyyyyy to long.
Then he's hurt because I'm grumpy. Go figure.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
While I was not tethered to the etherworld of the internet, I had dozens of ideas about things I could post--if I were still connected.
As you can see, I can only remember (or find notes about) a few of them.
I'm going to bore you now with a story about love, and marriage. Or at least, mumplelove and mumple marriage.
A week or so ago, I was miserable. I'm tired all the time right now, and the aches and pains in joints just shifts, it never really goes away. Stupidly, on top of this, I agreed that we could keep Missy for the weekend. Dude had to go pick up his parents (neither drives) 6 hours away.
Of course, the Howler looooooooves Missy. On Saturday night, the Howler showered earlier, because Missy was not with us at that point (she's a cheerleader for the flag football league) and she was at a game. When Missy came *home*, she needed a shower. So I troop upstairs with Missy to get her showered. My Sweetie stayed downstairs with the Howler.
While Missy is in the shower, I find a movie on TV. It's not a must see movie or anything, and My Sweetie certainly wouldn't be interested in it at all--no nudity, no explosions, no screaming, etc.
Anyway, I end up watching this entire movie, except for maybe the first 5 minutes. I miss a bit here and there while getting two 7 year olds ready and into bed.
With 5 freaking minutes to go, My Sweetie comes upstairs and asks (while looking all haggard and exhausted) if I want him to turn off all the lights and stuff, or am I going to do it later?
I go immediately into high-piss off mode, because, well, I don't watch that much TV or anything, but in the nine years we've been together, the only things I'm allowed to watch start-to-finish (either by Howler or by him) have been Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and even that was touch-and-go for about 2 seasons.)
I've commented before: the Howler's plan is that I shall never be allowed to both hear and see--at the same time--a movie or TV show. His plan is that I am allowed to see the beginning, the middle OR the end. But never an entire movie or show, no matter how much I've already seen, nor how interesting it is to me. It's annoying.
And I would've gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids.
So, I'm in high-piss off. Stomping, slamming...you name it.
He decides that now would be the best time to try and discuss it. HAH! I'm in high-piss off. I go around the house, shutting off lights, locking doors (slamming those that need closed first, of course) and generally closing up shop for the night. At one point, I slam a door in his face (in my defense, it was after he all-but demanded that I stop stomping and LISTEN to him. When I continued my stomping and ignored him, he swore at me. Yeah, we're nothing if not mature when we're mad.)
I literally shut off every light in the house and go bed. He comes upstairs, enters our room, and says, "I'm sorry for making you mad. I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to know if you were going back downstairs because I didn't want to shut off all the lights and everything and have you be mad at me. I'm also sorry for what I said. I shouldn't have said it. Now, I'm going to sleep downstairs."
First, I did accept his apology. Second, I did the mature thing, and out tantrumed him. I got up, took my pillow and announced, "If anyone is sleeping downstairs, I am." I tried to leave the room. He wouldn't let me. (He realized how stupid he was being at that point, and that he could NOT out immature me.)
Finally, I made it clear to him that in the entire time we've been together, we've never done that sort of thing--no matter how mad either, or both, of us are, we still sleep in the same bed. No matter what. He's never let me not sleep there, no matter how irrational, crazy, or angry I am. We sleep together. We don't have to snuggle up, there can be no spooning, we don't even have to kiss goodnight, but no matter what, we're both in there, together.
We ended up laughing a little bit about it (but of course, by that time, we were both exhausted.)
So, that's my marriage: Even if we're mad at each other, even if we can't stand each other, we're together--and that means that if it's not bad enough to pack your bags and really leave, then get yer ass to bed and we'll be mad at each other tomorrow (if we still feel like it.)
As you can see, I can only remember (or find notes about) a few of them.
I'm going to bore you now with a story about love, and marriage. Or at least, mumplelove and mumple marriage.
A week or so ago, I was miserable. I'm tired all the time right now, and the aches and pains in joints just shifts, it never really goes away. Stupidly, on top of this, I agreed that we could keep Missy for the weekend. Dude had to go pick up his parents (neither drives) 6 hours away.
Of course, the Howler looooooooves Missy. On Saturday night, the Howler showered earlier, because Missy was not with us at that point (she's a cheerleader for the flag football league) and she was at a game. When Missy came *home*, she needed a shower. So I troop upstairs with Missy to get her showered. My Sweetie stayed downstairs with the Howler.
While Missy is in the shower, I find a movie on TV. It's not a must see movie or anything, and My Sweetie certainly wouldn't be interested in it at all--no nudity, no explosions, no screaming, etc.
Anyway, I end up watching this entire movie, except for maybe the first 5 minutes. I miss a bit here and there while getting two 7 year olds ready and into bed.
With 5 freaking minutes to go, My Sweetie comes upstairs and asks (while looking all haggard and exhausted) if I want him to turn off all the lights and stuff, or am I going to do it later?
I go immediately into high-piss off mode, because, well, I don't watch that much TV or anything, but in the nine years we've been together, the only things I'm allowed to watch start-to-finish (either by Howler or by him) have been Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and even that was touch-and-go for about 2 seasons.)
I've commented before: the Howler's plan is that I shall never be allowed to both hear and see--at the same time--a movie or TV show. His plan is that I am allowed to see the beginning, the middle OR the end. But never an entire movie or show, no matter how much I've already seen, nor how interesting it is to me. It's annoying.
And I would've gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids.
So, I'm in high-piss off. Stomping, slamming...you name it.
He decides that now would be the best time to try and discuss it. HAH! I'm in high-piss off. I go around the house, shutting off lights, locking doors (slamming those that need closed first, of course) and generally closing up shop for the night. At one point, I slam a door in his face (in my defense, it was after he all-but demanded that I stop stomping and LISTEN to him. When I continued my stomping and ignored him, he swore at me. Yeah, we're nothing if not mature when we're mad.)
I literally shut off every light in the house and go bed. He comes upstairs, enters our room, and says, "I'm sorry for making you mad. I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to know if you were going back downstairs because I didn't want to shut off all the lights and everything and have you be mad at me. I'm also sorry for what I said. I shouldn't have said it. Now, I'm going to sleep downstairs."
First, I did accept his apology. Second, I did the mature thing, and out tantrumed him. I got up, took my pillow and announced, "If anyone is sleeping downstairs, I am." I tried to leave the room. He wouldn't let me. (He realized how stupid he was being at that point, and that he could NOT out immature me.)
Finally, I made it clear to him that in the entire time we've been together, we've never done that sort of thing--no matter how mad either, or both, of us are, we still sleep in the same bed. No matter what. He's never let me not sleep there, no matter how irrational, crazy, or angry I am. We sleep together. We don't have to snuggle up, there can be no spooning, we don't even have to kiss goodnight, but no matter what, we're both in there, together.
We ended up laughing a little bit about it (but of course, by that time, we were both exhausted.)
So, that's my marriage: Even if we're mad at each other, even if we can't stand each other, we're together--and that means that if it's not bad enough to pack your bags and really leave, then get yer ass to bed and we'll be mad at each other tomorrow (if we still feel like it.)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Funny Little Man
That's my Mr Mumple.
First, a little background on the day in question:
I spent my day at work inside. No problem, really, but it was noisy. As in clanging and banging, pages you could actually hear, large loading door going up and down on a rattly chain. Yeah, noisy comes close to describing it.
Second, there was soccer practice. During which I fell asleep in the car. When I woke up, I was a little disoriented.
Third, by the time we got home, the Howler (and the little mister) where quite chatty. As in non-stop blathering about God-Alone-Knows-What. The Howler had her volume set at 11. During the Howler's shower, I left the room for some quiet...and My Sweetie, ever the first to pick up on subtle clues, turned up the volume on the TV. Apparently, people two blocks over needed to hear it, whether they wanted to or not, and I, of course, in the next room, could too. My Sweetie wanders over to stand the doorway of the room I'm in, muttering to himself. Having had enough of the audio-overload, I shut the door in his muttering face. I got quiet, for about 2 seconds. He began asking if I was mad at him. Sheesh.
The Howler finally goes to bed.
There is quiet in the house. FINALLY.
My Sweetie is now complaining about a bug bite on his leg. I tell him, in an effort to not hear about it--or anything--I tell him, "I'll get you the anti-itch cream in ONE SECOND."
The funny little man I married responds with an evil grin, and a laugh, "Oh, do we have any anti-bitch cream, too?"
He's soooooo lucky that I know that being called a bitch is a compliment.
First, a little background on the day in question:
I spent my day at work inside. No problem, really, but it was noisy. As in clanging and banging, pages you could actually hear, large loading door going up and down on a rattly chain. Yeah, noisy comes close to describing it.
Second, there was soccer practice. During which I fell asleep in the car. When I woke up, I was a little disoriented.
Third, by the time we got home, the Howler (and the little mister) where quite chatty. As in non-stop blathering about God-Alone-Knows-What. The Howler had her volume set at 11. During the Howler's shower, I left the room for some quiet...and My Sweetie, ever the first to pick up on subtle clues, turned up the volume on the TV. Apparently, people two blocks over needed to hear it, whether they wanted to or not, and I, of course, in the next room, could too. My Sweetie wanders over to stand the doorway of the room I'm in, muttering to himself. Having had enough of the audio-overload, I shut the door in his muttering face. I got quiet, for about 2 seconds. He began asking if I was mad at him. Sheesh.
The Howler finally goes to bed.
There is quiet in the house. FINALLY.
My Sweetie is now complaining about a bug bite on his leg. I tell him, in an effort to not hear about it--or anything--I tell him, "I'll get you the anti-itch cream in ONE SECOND."
The funny little man I married responds with an evil grin, and a laugh, "Oh, do we have any anti-bitch cream, too?"
He's soooooo lucky that I know that being called a bitch is a compliment.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Meet the Fam
I've decided to share an "Awkward" moment in Mumple history, inspired by Awkward Family Photos.
When My Sweetie and I were first dating, it came time to meet the Fam. He'd obviously met mine (and meeting my mother for the first time was memorable in and of itself, but not the story I'm telling here) since we live in the same town. But going to meet his family was nerve-wracking, made more so by the fact that his family despised his ex-wife (albeit with reason) and I'm concerned that they'll just hate me no matter what.
Plus, I really liked him, and having his family hate me would definitely not help the relationship. Did I mention how much I really liked him? He's nervous too, because the sociopath he'd previously been married to made him doubt his sanity and judgement. He's still wondering if I'm going to go medieval on him at this point.
Off we go so I can meet them.
We're at his parents house, and of course, being the youngest of five, and the previous woman's rep, they're all there to meet me. (Their order is girl-boy-girl-several years-girl-My Sweetie, in case you were wondering.) Even his fat cow of a sister-in-law, and their daughters. Everything is okay so far...everyone's on his and her best behavior. I've managed not to swear for at least 2 hours, and they seem to like me.
My Sweetie has gifts for everyone, and I have brought an appropriate gift for his mom. His mom, and two of his three sisters have smallish, friendly gifts for me, just so I won't feel left out. The Middle One, sitting next to me on the couch, turns to me and says, "I didn't know if I'd like you or not, and I wasn't going to waste my money buying you anything until I knew if I would."
My mother-in-law, to this day, is absolutely mortified that she said it, but it cracks me up every Christmas when we tell this story.
When My Sweetie and I were first dating, it came time to meet the Fam. He'd obviously met mine (and meeting my mother for the first time was memorable in and of itself, but not the story I'm telling here) since we live in the same town. But going to meet his family was nerve-wracking, made more so by the fact that his family despised his ex-wife (albeit with reason) and I'm concerned that they'll just hate me no matter what.
Plus, I really liked him, and having his family hate me would definitely not help the relationship. Did I mention how much I really liked him? He's nervous too, because the sociopath he'd previously been married to made him doubt his sanity and judgement. He's still wondering if I'm going to go medieval on him at this point.
Off we go so I can meet them.
We're at his parents house, and of course, being the youngest of five, and the previous woman's rep, they're all there to meet me. (Their order is girl-boy-girl-several years-girl-My Sweetie, in case you were wondering.) Even his fat cow of a sister-in-law, and their daughters. Everything is okay so far...everyone's on his and her best behavior. I've managed not to swear for at least 2 hours, and they seem to like me.
My Sweetie has gifts for everyone, and I have brought an appropriate gift for his mom. His mom, and two of his three sisters have smallish, friendly gifts for me, just so I won't feel left out. The Middle One, sitting next to me on the couch, turns to me and says, "I didn't know if I'd like you or not, and I wasn't going to waste my money buying you anything until I knew if I would."
My mother-in-law, to this day, is absolutely mortified that she said it, but it cracks me up every Christmas when we tell this story.
Got the T-Shirt
I should have known I was in trouble when he sat down at the computer and pulled up the website he wanted without swearing, muttering, or asking for help. I should have been worried when he didn't start putting of a "I want to kill this thing" vibe. I should have been afraid when I saw that he had his wallet with him.
He never gets on the computer if he can help it. He couldn't check email to save his life. He can rarely find the site he's wanting, and he habitually says things like, "It hates me, you know." He'd throw the computer through a 3rd story window, if we had a third story and I'd let him.
Just over a month ago, he did the impossible--and the frightening. He got online. And he bought something.
His only request for my input was to ask, as he was nearing completion of his mission, "Hey, honey, you want to go see Alice Cooper at the fair, dontcha?" As my eyes glaze over at the ridiculousness of this question, he hits the send button and announces, "Good! I've got us tickets."
To say that our music tastes do not exactly mesh is an understatement. He habitually ridicules my choices, and I habitually groan and tolerate his. (In my defense, he cranks up the stereo more often than I do.) Some of his choices have grown on me, and I have come to actually enjoy listening to it.
But, Alice Cooper? Seriously? No, this concert is not high on my list of places I want to go. Add that to a FAIR of any kind, and in all honesty, I'm thinking "I'm in Hell" will be the catch phrase for the evening.
Until I realize that my enjoyment of watching the people would compliment his enjoyment of the show. AND, most importantly, neither of our children, nor any other family members would be going with us.
I wouldn't have to be on my bestest best behavior. I would just have to keep my frustration and irrational anger at the FAIR and everything it embodies to a minimum.
Last night, we were off to the fair. He was excited. I was amused.
While there, we ran into an Episcopal priest we know--and he was dragging his wife to the concert as well.
I managed, in the walk into the fair, and then into the concert, to hold in my giggles. And my sarcastic and rude comments. I managed to not go bug eyed at the over-50 people with beer bellies (mostly women) and the oldsters with gray hair down to their butts (men.) I managed to not begin shrieking with laughter when the woman in the green halter went by with no bra and each and every one of her stretch marks showing.
Seriously, I think the tickets should have read "BRAS OPTIONAL." And most of the braless were NOT the 15-25 year old hotties, either. They were, of course, the people who had the most to flap--I don't care who you are, looking at flabby 50-something tits hanging under a two sizes too small tee isn't attractive (although, in her defense, the green halter woman did have a decent set--not too big as to be flabby and saggy, but still!)
The show, overall, wasn't bad. It was actually fun. Somehow, my impressions of the show lead me to believe that Alice Cooper has quite a sense of humor. And he doesn't mind making fun of himself. And that he's rather a good showman. He knew what the audience wanted, and he gave it to them--right down to the beheading. And the hanging. And the song about Ethel.
In the end, the shiny, mirrored top hat and tails that he ended the show in was really, in my opinion, worth watching all the loose and free titties for.
Does this make me a fan? I don't think so. It does mean I can appreciate a good show. I can appreciate the work and planning that went into choreographing a concert that included several ways to die.
I can't believe the people who had their small children--I mean at least one had a baby in a stroller with them, and I saw at least a dozen children under the age of 9 in the crowd as well. The show was simply NOT appropriate for children. Sure, there was no nudity, but a few of "Nurse Rosetta's" costumes were black bustier and corset things, including torn fishnet nylons. And the noise level was enough to damage MY hearing forever, I can only imagine what it would do to a 9 month old baby's. And some of the death imagery was just too much for a child. I'm 42, and I can appreciate the "pretendness" of it, and am not bothered by a theatrical performance, but I couldn't imagine taking the Howler to a show like this and not causing some sort of short in her hardwiring--the sexual content of some of the songs, the sexual and violent imagery, which, I'm sure, by standards of 2009 TV and movie audiences aren't that shocking, would just be unfair to expose my child.
In the end, I did enjoy the show. Much to my own chargrin. My biggest regret? I forgot my camera.
And, yes, I did get the $30 t-shirt.
He never gets on the computer if he can help it. He couldn't check email to save his life. He can rarely find the site he's wanting, and he habitually says things like, "It hates me, you know." He'd throw the computer through a 3rd story window, if we had a third story and I'd let him.
Just over a month ago, he did the impossible--and the frightening. He got online. And he bought something.
His only request for my input was to ask, as he was nearing completion of his mission, "Hey, honey, you want to go see Alice Cooper at the fair, dontcha?" As my eyes glaze over at the ridiculousness of this question, he hits the send button and announces, "Good! I've got us tickets."
To say that our music tastes do not exactly mesh is an understatement. He habitually ridicules my choices, and I habitually groan and tolerate his. (In my defense, he cranks up the stereo more often than I do.) Some of his choices have grown on me, and I have come to actually enjoy listening to it.
But, Alice Cooper? Seriously? No, this concert is not high on my list of places I want to go. Add that to a FAIR of any kind, and in all honesty, I'm thinking "I'm in Hell" will be the catch phrase for the evening.
Until I realize that my enjoyment of watching the people would compliment his enjoyment of the show. AND, most importantly, neither of our children, nor any other family members would be going with us.
I wouldn't have to be on my bestest best behavior. I would just have to keep my frustration and irrational anger at the FAIR and everything it embodies to a minimum.
Last night, we were off to the fair. He was excited. I was amused.
While there, we ran into an Episcopal priest we know--and he was dragging his wife to the concert as well.
I managed, in the walk into the fair, and then into the concert, to hold in my giggles. And my sarcastic and rude comments. I managed to not go bug eyed at the over-50 people with beer bellies (mostly women) and the oldsters with gray hair down to their butts (men.) I managed to not begin shrieking with laughter when the woman in the green halter went by with no bra and each and every one of her stretch marks showing.
Seriously, I think the tickets should have read "BRAS OPTIONAL." And most of the braless were NOT the 15-25 year old hotties, either. They were, of course, the people who had the most to flap--I don't care who you are, looking at flabby 50-something tits hanging under a two sizes too small tee isn't attractive (although, in her defense, the green halter woman did have a decent set--not too big as to be flabby and saggy, but still!)
The show, overall, wasn't bad. It was actually fun. Somehow, my impressions of the show lead me to believe that Alice Cooper has quite a sense of humor. And he doesn't mind making fun of himself. And that he's rather a good showman. He knew what the audience wanted, and he gave it to them--right down to the beheading. And the hanging. And the song about Ethel.
In the end, the shiny, mirrored top hat and tails that he ended the show in was really, in my opinion, worth watching all the loose and free titties for.
Does this make me a fan? I don't think so. It does mean I can appreciate a good show. I can appreciate the work and planning that went into choreographing a concert that included several ways to die.
I can't believe the people who had their small children--I mean at least one had a baby in a stroller with them, and I saw at least a dozen children under the age of 9 in the crowd as well. The show was simply NOT appropriate for children. Sure, there was no nudity, but a few of "Nurse Rosetta's" costumes were black bustier and corset things, including torn fishnet nylons. And the noise level was enough to damage MY hearing forever, I can only imagine what it would do to a 9 month old baby's. And some of the death imagery was just too much for a child. I'm 42, and I can appreciate the "pretendness" of it, and am not bothered by a theatrical performance, but I couldn't imagine taking the Howler to a show like this and not causing some sort of short in her hardwiring--the sexual content of some of the songs, the sexual and violent imagery, which, I'm sure, by standards of 2009 TV and movie audiences aren't that shocking, would just be unfair to expose my child.
In the end, I did enjoy the show. Much to my own chargrin. My biggest regret? I forgot my camera.
And, yes, I did get the $30 t-shirt.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
So, For The Record..
If you're going on vacation, and yer plans involve having amusement park tickets in advance, and you can't be amused at the amusement park unless you have the tickets, forgetting the tickets at home isn't a good idea.
It's also not fun to realize after you've been on the interstate for just shy of 40 minutes that you've left the tickets at home.
And if that happens, even the most understanding and wonderful of husbands will make fun of you for the rest of the week.
Just so you know.
It's also not fun to realize after you've been on the interstate for just shy of 40 minutes that you've left the tickets at home.
And if that happens, even the most understanding and wonderful of husbands will make fun of you for the rest of the week.
Just so you know.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Mr Mumple Ponders
"Does anyone else think that she spends entirely too much time on this shit, and doesn't she have better things to do--like laundry?"
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Knock Knock
Who's there?
"Daddy, are you on top of Mommy?"
LOL
Yesterday, around 6am, this is what we heard...okay, My Sweetie, heard. I was, of course, not thinking of the pitter patter of 6 year old feets.
He was dumbfounded and unable to answer, except to tell her to go back to bed. Since it was Day 100 at school, she was too excited to go back to sleep, and her music wasn't on, and no, neither of us were getting up to turn it on, so I told her to take Bear and Monkey and go downstairs to watch TV. She happily scurried on her way.
Now, though, we're wondering just when this is going to come up in conversation. Maybe tonight, at my aunt's house after school? Or at AWANAs? Or maybe Sunday in church? Yeah, I'm sure it's going to fun for us--okay, for demented, evil me. Kevin will be mortified (again) and I'll be diabolical.
I mean, how embarrassed can I be over this? We woke her up one night about 2 years ago, and she blamed The Toad, ranting on and on about how he thumped and bumped and pounded on the wall.... He figured it out, and thankfully kept his mouth shut (or maybe it's a trauma better left unmentioned?)
Oh, and we're getting a doorknob with a lock this weekend. (She's been on a rip about fighting with me whenever her father is home, she's demanding of his time if she's excluded....yeah, she's gonna be pounding on that locked door!)
"Daddy, are you on top of Mommy?"
LOL
Yesterday, around 6am, this is what we heard...okay, My Sweetie, heard. I was, of course, not thinking of the pitter patter of 6 year old feets.
He was dumbfounded and unable to answer, except to tell her to go back to bed. Since it was Day 100 at school, she was too excited to go back to sleep, and her music wasn't on, and no, neither of us were getting up to turn it on, so I told her to take Bear and Monkey and go downstairs to watch TV. She happily scurried on her way.
Now, though, we're wondering just when this is going to come up in conversation. Maybe tonight, at my aunt's house after school? Or at AWANAs? Or maybe Sunday in church? Yeah, I'm sure it's going to fun for us--okay, for demented, evil me. Kevin will be mortified (again) and I'll be diabolical.
I mean, how embarrassed can I be over this? We woke her up one night about 2 years ago, and she blamed The Toad, ranting on and on about how he thumped and bumped and pounded on the wall.... He figured it out, and thankfully kept his mouth shut (or maybe it's a trauma better left unmentioned?)
Oh, and we're getting a doorknob with a lock this weekend. (She's been on a rip about fighting with me whenever her father is home, she's demanding of his time if she's excluded....yeah, she's gonna be pounding on that locked door!)
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