Matters of record, unrelated to what will follow:
The house is not yet sold.
I did mop the entire first floor this morning (with a fever, thankyouverymuch), so of course it appears that this afternoon’s showing no-showed.
The reason I did not volunteer the muffin recipe in the previous entry is because it involved a boxed mix. Hence my guilt resulting in from-scratch pizza later on. Now you know.
Today was interesting. I took the kids to a movie, so that we wouldn’t be loitering around during the showing that wasn’t, and I see maybe two movies at the cinema every year. This is not something I do very often, is my point. So I like it if the experience is a good one, you know, since it’s kind of a treat.
The children, however, had seen a movie just yesterday. So, old hat for them. Spoiled brats.
Anyway, the movie itself was pretty good (we saw The Last Mimzy). But the projector in our theater had a loose screw or something, I don’t know. I spent the entire movie with a feeling of nausea and unease, thinking that the cinematography was kind of jerky and weird… and about halfway through I finally figured out that, no, it was just that the frame kept sort of skipping.
I waited for someone to notice and fix it, but they never did. And I couldn’t go complain, because what was I going to do, leave my kids alone in the theater while I did?
So there was that.
To add insult to injury, there was someone sitting behind us who—well, at first I thought it was a little kid who was scared. Later I realized it was an adult who was perhaps developmentally delayed. There was moaning. And yipping. And soda slurping. And all manner of noises over and over and over.
Between that and the projector skipping, I consider myself lucky to have gotten out of there without vomiting.
Here’s the interesting part, though: After all of that, I did complain to a manager afterwards, and he was very apologetic and said he’d get us some free passes. So he goes away and comes back with two free passes. For three of us. I didn’t want to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, so I thanked him and we went on our way. I had to listen to the children argue all the way home about who the tickets were for. They only stopped bickering when I told them that both tickets were for ME.
Ah, but the movie was not the interesting part of the day. It was the evening that yielded the best moments.
Back home, Chickadee suddenly remembered that she’s testing for belt promotion at Tae Kwon Do tomorrow. So she goes looking for her student handbook to do her studying (there is an oral exam in addition to a practical), and starts FREAKING OUT because apparently part of this belt’s promotion requirement is that she write an essay. (Nothing like planning ahead.) She cried and stomped and wailed and generally worked herself into a froth, and every time I was able to calm her down she’d go back to the manual and cry, “I can’t learn it all! I’ll never be able to write anything! AAAHHHHHHH!”
And I had to try not to laugh, because it all very much reminded me of Don Music on Sesame Street, hurling his head onto the ivories every time he attempted his master composition. “Mary had a little… bicycle… oh NO NO NO, I’ll never get it right!” *slam*
In the end, we figured out that she’d read the essay bit from the NEXT set of promotion requirements, and there’d be no last-minute compositions required. Phew.
In the meantime, I’d sent Monkey upstairs to take a shower. When I went to check on him after a while, I found him dancing around his room, naked, applying lotion. It was a small victory for me when I was able to get him to do his own lotion; his eczema can be severe, and I was having visions of having to slather him with lotion, myself, until he left for college. But he’s finally doing it on his own now, which is good.
He paused when I stuck my head in the doorway. “You can brush my hair while I do my lotion,” he offered magnanimously.
“Oh I CAN, can I?”
“Yes!” And then he wiggled his butt in my direction, and so really, how could I refuse? I went and grabbed his brush and returned. This was when I discovered that Monkey’s skaterboy hair attempts needed attention. I simply couldn’t comb his hair in any way so that it wasn’t in his eyes. Straight forward, in his eyes. Swept to the side, it’d fall in his eyes.
“Buddy, we need to trim your hair,” I said after a few attempts.
“Just a little, honey. Come into my bathroom and I’ll just snip this little bit in the front so it’s not in your eyes.”
Monkey is an obedient sort. He followed me back to my room, still naked. I had him lean over the sink and I snipped away at the hair on his forehead. In about thirty seconds I could see his eyes again, and it was a decent enough job, although he now looked an awful lot like a Beatle.
“Are you sure you don’t just want a haircut?” I offered.
“Nope, this is good,” he said, patting his head, and trotting back to his room.
I put the scissors away and walked back down the hall just in time to witness him getting a handful of lotion and smearing it all over his crotch.
“NOOOO!” I ran into his room, and he was startled. I started laughing. “Monkey, you put the lotion where your skin is DRY. Is your penis dry?”
“Not really,” he said. He tried to wipe it off, with some success. I noticed there was still a large glob of lotion on his scrotum.
“Oh, well, I see you have plenty of lotion on your scrotum, there. Now it will be nice and soft and supple!”
“Good!” he answered. “Because before it was all POINTY and DIFFICULT!”
There was a brief pause, during which he beamed at me and I, inexplicably, wondered if he would remember these exchanges as an adult, and how many years of therapy he might require, if so, and then we both started laughing.
“Your… SCROTUM… was…” I could barely speak, but I HAD to clarify this, “POINTY AND DIFFICULT?”
“YES!” he bellowed, between merry snorts and giggles, “VERY!” And he resumed his dancing and butt-wiggling and I threw a pair of underwear at his head and asked him to please put them on before our conversation got any stranger. As if that was possible.
Later I quizzed Chickadee on her TKD info while she kept insisting that it was too much to remember (“Twinkle, twinkle, little… popsicle. Oh NO NO NO!” *slam*), and when Monkey wandered past (dressed, now, thankfully) she asked me what happened to his hair.
“He joined the Beatles,” I said.
“He’s a bug?” she asked.