Oh, my. Here I was busy just having a little chuckle over the day’s events, and y’all have me paired off and married to the guy, already. Slow down, people. Goodness. There’s still plenty of time for him to turn out to be a psycho, or just never call at all. Wait and see, willya?
In other news, day-to-day life goes on. I went grocery shopping with a friend, yesterday afternoon, which resulted in deep discussion of multiple important issues. At the outset of our trip I mentioned that I hoped Coke was on sale because I was experiencing a critical shortage of Diet Coke with Lime, which caused my friend to snort and declare that I am not allowed to use the term “critical shortage” to describe my diet soda addiction. Of course, as her solution to this issue was that I should instead addict myself to coffee only (as if the Diet Coke with Lime wasn’t just a handy filler between cups of coffee, already), this was an intellectual debate that continued clear to aisle twelve or so.
Later she insisted that her bagger was at least 100 years old. I countered that he couldn’t have possibly been a day over 85. And still later that evening when she called to tell me that he hadn’t packed her pork chops (try saying that ten times fast!) I was able to assure her that indeed he had, because I had been transfixed, watching him bag in old-person slow-motion, and she needed to check her car again. (The pork chops were later found under the seat. She cooked them for dinner.)
In further scintillating news, my children are disturbing, but cute.
This morning the Christmas tree didn’t light up. Upon investigation I found that–according to the plug-in timer–we were having breakfast at three in the afternoon. “Who has been messing with the tree timer?” I bellowed.
“Not me!” came the predictable chorus.
Chickadee does feel a bit guilty when she lies. Sometimes. She attempted to make it up to me by brightening my morning with a joke. Now, if you know me, you know that I believe the funniest answer to “Why did the chicken cross the road?” is “To get to the other side.” I cannot explain to you why I believe that is the One True Answer to that query. It just is. And in a household where the offered answer to “Why did the chicken cross the road?” is just as likely to be “Hippo!” or “Poop!” or “Because I puked!”, it’s important to be in touch with the chicken’s true motives.
So, shortly after the discovery of the tree time warp, Chickadee asked me why the chicken crossed the playground.
“I don’t know, honey. Eat your breakfast. Why did the chicken cross the playground?”
“To get to the other SLIDE! Get it??”
You know what? I did get it. And I thought it was pretty funny. So I stopped being annoyed about the tree. And I wrote “Why did the turkey cross the grocery store? To get away from the cranberry sauce! Okay, yours was funnier” on her lunch napkin before I packed it.
But then I went into the mudroom to assemble backpacks and shoes, and discovered that Chickadee’s sneakers are now sans insoles. “Chickadee! What happened to the insides of your shoes?”
“I don’t know.” I could feel my eyes narrowing my gaze into a laserbeam.
“Come see me when you figure it out,” I said in measured tones. She hopped right out of her chair and ran over to me.
“But… Mama… I just… they were hurting my feet! I threw them away!”
Meanwhile, Monkey was quietly eating his breakfast. And caressing–yes, caressing, nay, fondling–a small blue bead he found on the playground a few days ago. He runs his fingertips over it and rubs it on his face and declares to no one in particular that this is his very favorite lovey bead and it is so special to him.
Don’t all be jealous of my life at once, now.