May 27, 2009
1. Fill diaper.
2. Create Poo Masterpiece on crib and walls. Working title: "Sanctifying My Mother". Don't forget to sign it.
3. Leisurely bath. Practice shouting the ABCs. Put finishing touches on Shamu impression, displacing as much water as possible. Way to multitask, bro.
4. Break personal record for longest period of uninterrupted nudity.
5. Fetch watering can full of last night's recycled bathtub water. Use every last drop on the bathroom rug.
6. Time out.
7. PB&J.
8. Negotiate the loan of Mariah's lovey for naptime, since all four of mine are covered in poo. What a sucker.
9. Raid mom's night stand. Remove tub of vaseline. Apply liberally to face, hair, and furniture. I am a stud.
10. Time out.
11. Reject healthy dinner. Demand a cracker.
12. Time out.
13. Bath # 2. Bonus points for extra nudity.
14. Challenge sisters to a game of baby tag. Fall down. Scream loud enough to alert the neighbors.
15. Don batman pajamas. Scale sisters' bunkbeds.
*note to self: Utility belt is for decorative purposes only. Grappling hook not included.
16. Lights out. Begin plotting tomorrow's attack on Mom's sanity. Life is good.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Flushing the Lines
Okay, everyone. I see that it has been almost a month since my last posting. I have no excuse. Thanks to the economy, my writing jobs all but dried up in the last thirty days. I have been wallowing in free time like a little piggy--a radiant little piggy like Wilbur in Charlotte's Web.
My mind is more of a jumbled mess than usual, so I'm just going to clear it out in this post, and then maybe I'll have something of value to share with you next time around.
Our friends Mark and Sumar and their two boys came to visit us a few weeks ago, right as the Twilight movie was being released.
Confession: I picked up a battered copy of Twilight at the used book store after discovering that it was all the girls in the youth group were talking about. The book is ridiculous, as are the three sequels, which I ordered online and devoured in rapid succession. I couldn't stop myself, like I was trapped in a tweener tractor beam. Even worse, I got Matt hooked on them. We preordered our copy of the Twilight movie on Amazon, but it wasn't delivered by the big release date.
Sumar coaxed me into driving out to Wal-Mart at 12:15 a.m. so we could buy her copy of the movie and then stay up ridiculously late to watch it. The Wal-Mart associates set out the new DVDs right at midnight. Since Corsicana is a small town, all the screaming girls and their screaming mothers had already cleared out by then, having devoured the Twilight themed cupcakes and scattered all the candy from the vampire pinata.
Last year as Matt and I were leaving for the theater to see Twilight, our babysitters warned us that we would be disappointed.
"They totally changed the plot,' said sitter A.
"Yeah, they did. And Edward is WAY better looking in the book," sitter B chimes in.
So we snuck into the theater with our dollar store candy and snickered through several scenes of the movie. It's funny how the things that have turned other people off--the super cheesy special effects, the endless brooding, and winners like "and so the Lion fell in love with the lamb" uttered with zero irony--just make us love it more. In fact, we like to remind folks who take this so seriously that the plot is based on the idea of "vegetarian vampires." It is what it is. Matt and I like it for the emphasis on chivalry and restraint. But since we're not, say, 13 year old girls, we try not to remember that, ummm... there's no such thing as vampires.
That being said, I feel I must inform you that not only was Edward better looking in the book (no human being could live up to the Meyer fantasy), but he was also more playful and more eloquent. He was also a much better composer.
Attention Twilight movie maker people: As a vampire who has been on the planet for almost a century and never sleeps, Edward has had nothing better to do with his time than attend high school, rack up graduate degrees, and practice the piano. Am I to believe that these 80 years of practice would produce a composer/pianist with the same musical stylings as John Tesh? Not Aaron Copeland or Leonard Bernstein or Richard Rodgers or John Williams. John Tesh, from Entertainment Tonight. It's preposterous.
Whew. Thanks for letting me clear that nonsense out of the old noggin.
Love,
Misha
My mind is more of a jumbled mess than usual, so I'm just going to clear it out in this post, and then maybe I'll have something of value to share with you next time around.
Our friends Mark and Sumar and their two boys came to visit us a few weeks ago, right as the Twilight movie was being released.
Confession: I picked up a battered copy of Twilight at the used book store after discovering that it was all the girls in the youth group were talking about. The book is ridiculous, as are the three sequels, which I ordered online and devoured in rapid succession. I couldn't stop myself, like I was trapped in a tweener tractor beam. Even worse, I got Matt hooked on them. We preordered our copy of the Twilight movie on Amazon, but it wasn't delivered by the big release date.
Sumar coaxed me into driving out to Wal-Mart at 12:15 a.m. so we could buy her copy of the movie and then stay up ridiculously late to watch it. The Wal-Mart associates set out the new DVDs right at midnight. Since Corsicana is a small town, all the screaming girls and their screaming mothers had already cleared out by then, having devoured the Twilight themed cupcakes and scattered all the candy from the vampire pinata.
Last year as Matt and I were leaving for the theater to see Twilight, our babysitters warned us that we would be disappointed.
"They totally changed the plot,' said sitter A.
"Yeah, they did. And Edward is WAY better looking in the book," sitter B chimes in.
So we snuck into the theater with our dollar store candy and snickered through several scenes of the movie. It's funny how the things that have turned other people off--the super cheesy special effects, the endless brooding, and winners like "and so the Lion fell in love with the lamb" uttered with zero irony--just make us love it more. In fact, we like to remind folks who take this so seriously that the plot is based on the idea of "vegetarian vampires." It is what it is. Matt and I like it for the emphasis on chivalry and restraint. But since we're not, say, 13 year old girls, we try not to remember that, ummm... there's no such thing as vampires.
That being said, I feel I must inform you that not only was Edward better looking in the book (no human being could live up to the Meyer fantasy), but he was also more playful and more eloquent. He was also a much better composer.
Attention Twilight movie maker people: As a vampire who has been on the planet for almost a century and never sleeps, Edward has had nothing better to do with his time than attend high school, rack up graduate degrees, and practice the piano. Am I to believe that these 80 years of practice would produce a composer/pianist with the same musical stylings as John Tesh? Not Aaron Copeland or Leonard Bernstein or Richard Rodgers or John Williams. John Tesh, from Entertainment Tonight. It's preposterous.
Whew. Thanks for letting me clear that nonsense out of the old noggin.
Love,
Misha
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
My evening in gerund phrases
Yes, folks, it is 1:22 a.m. Here is a summary of the last two hours:
Fighting the flu disturbs even the soundest sleeper, especially a little boy who has misplaced his favorite lovey.
Fretting over a sick baby keeps a mommy from accomplishing anything.
Barking dogs do not encourage friendliness in your neighbors.
Spying a giant rat in the eves of her back porch can really lead a girl to question the family policy banning firearms.
Pooping on the laundry room floor is an effective tactic by which the passive-aggressive dog may protest his banishment from the end of the bed.
Cleaning up dog poop in the middle of the night scores serious brownie points with the ladies.
Screaming at the top of your lungs quickly alerts everyone in the house (and the neighborhood) that you are dreaming about bugs, especially the flying variety.
Tucking little ones into bed may be one of the greatest joys of motherhood.
Taking your own temperature is the first step toward admitting that after three weeks of nursing your kids through first flu A and then flu B, your own luck may finally have run out.
Obsessing over the grammatical flaws in the previous sentence reminds you that blogging should be fun. Fixing that sentence would not be fun; therefore, this entry is finished.
Fighting the flu disturbs even the soundest sleeper, especially a little boy who has misplaced his favorite lovey.
Fretting over a sick baby keeps a mommy from accomplishing anything.
Barking dogs do not encourage friendliness in your neighbors.
Spying a giant rat in the eves of her back porch can really lead a girl to question the family policy banning firearms.
Pooping on the laundry room floor is an effective tactic by which the passive-aggressive dog may protest his banishment from the end of the bed.
Cleaning up dog poop in the middle of the night scores serious brownie points with the ladies.
Screaming at the top of your lungs quickly alerts everyone in the house (and the neighborhood) that you are dreaming about bugs, especially the flying variety.
Tucking little ones into bed may be one of the greatest joys of motherhood.
Taking your own temperature is the first step toward admitting that after three weeks of nursing your kids through first flu A and then flu B, your own luck may finally have run out.
Obsessing over the grammatical flaws in the previous sentence reminds you that blogging should be fun. Fixing that sentence would not be fun; therefore, this entry is finished.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Chim, Chim Chiroo...Who The Heck Are You?
If I had to make a list of the biggest differences Corsicana has brought to our lives, it would look something like this:
1. No Target. Boo.
2. No Olive Garden. Hiss.
3. Discovered Brookshire's, complete with smiling bag boys that chat you up, call you "ma'am" and load your stuff in the car.
4. No traffic. Hurray!
5. Our town's claim to fame: Fruitcake factory. I'm not lying...
6. A.M. radio
Yeah, about the A.M. radio...
Every day our local station hosts a show called Talk Time. The name says it all. People can call in and just talk, make announcements, etc. It's like an audio swap meet, a garage sale of the airwaves. It is the bane of my existence.
There is a man who frequently calls in to sell or give away things. And every time he gives directions to his house like this:
"It's on the corner of Elmwood and 24th. White house, red door."
Problem. Elmwood jogs a bit when it crosses 24th. Without an actual address, people stop at the first white house with the red door they see on the corner of Elmwood and 24th.
My house.
For about a year now, the parade of bargain hunters and junk swappers has made its way across my yard. Once I figured out what was happening, I began answering the door with a cheerful, "Hi there! The Talk Time Man does not live here. But you might be able to do business with my neighbors across the street. Buh-bye now."
We are saving up to paint our house, so hopefully this problem will resolve itself soon. In the meantime, I am still amazed that this guy has never thought to qualify his description of his house. Something like, "NOT the one with the picket fence." After today, that might change.
Matt was sorting through some things in the study this afternoon, and all of the sudden our dogs went nuts in the backyard. As he was getting up to investigate, he heard an odd sound coming from the fireplace--conversation and lots of banging. He went out in the front yard, and that's when he saw the guys up on our roof.
"Excuse me, guys. Can I help you?"
"Well, no. We've got it. Thanks, though."
"Mind if I ask what you're doing?"
"We're installing the new chimney cover you ordered."
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but I didn't order a new chimney cover."
"You mean you're not Mr. So-and-So (a.k.a The Talk Time Man)?"
"Obviously, no."
"But this is a white house with a red door on the corner of Elmwood and 24th."
"Yes...but so is that (pointing)."
Unbelievable! Doesn't this man know his street address? Does the electric company send his bill to "The White House With The Red Door..."
It turns out, the work crew had come to "the white house" yesterday, but nobody was home (I was at bible study). So they got on the roof and measured our chimney, returning today with a new custom cover that doesn't even begin to fit the chimney at the OTHER white house.
In case you haven't noticed, this man is making me insane. I've seen him before at very close range. It was right after we moved into this house. We had hired someone to cut down a dead tree outside the kitchen window. The Talk Time Man drove over, parked in the middle of a very busy street, and helped himself to the wood. He made several trips, each time loading up the trunk of his Volkswagen, puffing away on a giant cigar. It was almost Christmas, and he was sporting one of those cheap Santa hats.
But we're all about looking on the bright side here. First of all, we now have a privacy fence that extends past the kitchen window, shielding me from all mooching, tobacco using Santas. And we now have a custom chimney cover. Since they had already made it, the company offered it to us for half price. Matt says we needed a new one.
So God bless you, Talk Time Man. Please find another hobby.
1. No Target. Boo.
2. No Olive Garden. Hiss.
3. Discovered Brookshire's, complete with smiling bag boys that chat you up, call you "ma'am" and load your stuff in the car.
4. No traffic. Hurray!
5. Our town's claim to fame: Fruitcake factory. I'm not lying...
6. A.M. radio
Yeah, about the A.M. radio...
Every day our local station hosts a show called Talk Time. The name says it all. People can call in and just talk, make announcements, etc. It's like an audio swap meet, a garage sale of the airwaves. It is the bane of my existence.
There is a man who frequently calls in to sell or give away things. And every time he gives directions to his house like this:
"It's on the corner of Elmwood and 24th. White house, red door."
Problem. Elmwood jogs a bit when it crosses 24th. Without an actual address, people stop at the first white house with the red door they see on the corner of Elmwood and 24th.
My house.
For about a year now, the parade of bargain hunters and junk swappers has made its way across my yard. Once I figured out what was happening, I began answering the door with a cheerful, "Hi there! The Talk Time Man does not live here. But you might be able to do business with my neighbors across the street. Buh-bye now."
We are saving up to paint our house, so hopefully this problem will resolve itself soon. In the meantime, I am still amazed that this guy has never thought to qualify his description of his house. Something like, "NOT the one with the picket fence." After today, that might change.
Matt was sorting through some things in the study this afternoon, and all of the sudden our dogs went nuts in the backyard. As he was getting up to investigate, he heard an odd sound coming from the fireplace--conversation and lots of banging. He went out in the front yard, and that's when he saw the guys up on our roof.
"Excuse me, guys. Can I help you?"
"Well, no. We've got it. Thanks, though."
"Mind if I ask what you're doing?"
"We're installing the new chimney cover you ordered."
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but I didn't order a new chimney cover."
"You mean you're not Mr. So-and-So (a.k.a The Talk Time Man)?"
"Obviously, no."
"But this is a white house with a red door on the corner of Elmwood and 24th."
"Yes...but so is that (pointing)."
Unbelievable! Doesn't this man know his street address? Does the electric company send his bill to "The White House With The Red Door..."
It turns out, the work crew had come to "the white house" yesterday, but nobody was home (I was at bible study). So they got on the roof and measured our chimney, returning today with a new custom cover that doesn't even begin to fit the chimney at the OTHER white house.
In case you haven't noticed, this man is making me insane. I've seen him before at very close range. It was right after we moved into this house. We had hired someone to cut down a dead tree outside the kitchen window. The Talk Time Man drove over, parked in the middle of a very busy street, and helped himself to the wood. He made several trips, each time loading up the trunk of his Volkswagen, puffing away on a giant cigar. It was almost Christmas, and he was sporting one of those cheap Santa hats.
But we're all about looking on the bright side here. First of all, we now have a privacy fence that extends past the kitchen window, shielding me from all mooching, tobacco using Santas. And we now have a custom chimney cover. Since they had already made it, the company offered it to us for half price. Matt says we needed a new one.
So God bless you, Talk Time Man. Please find another hobby.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
