I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but my life is pretty exciting. Try not to be jealous.

On Friday I spent most of the day fruit-wrangling, because nothing says “marching band fundraiser” like a gazillion cases of fruit that need to be sorted and counted and loaded into people’s cars and such. I was killing a couple of birds with one stone, really, because Monkey and I both went in to help AND we had a couple of teacher meetings in preparation for his January start at Chickie’s school AND he got to hang out in the band room with some of the kids he’ll be in class with next semester, so it was all good, really.

It was just that after we did that, then we also had to spend the weekend delivering the fruit that Chickadee sold, along with everything else we were trying to get done this weekend. I love how the idea is that “the kids go out and fundraise,” but in reality—WEIRD!—cases of grapefruit are heavy and I can’t exactly just send her out with her little red wagon to go make deliveries. Especially because we do not have a little red wagon.

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So remember how I had a cold around Thanksgiving? It never really went away entirely, and for a solid week I was busy patting myself on the back that for the first time in the history of ever I did not overachieve on a cold and end up with bronchitis. And yet, weird things were happening in my head and unspeakable things were happening inside my sinuses. (UNSPEAKABLE. DO NOT ASK.) Friday night I fell asleep on the couch at about 8:30, which seemed… weird. And so in the midst of Fruitapalooza I got up on Saturday morning and called my doctor’s and begged for an appointment. (Actually, I begged for drugs. For some reason they like to see you first.) Yes indeed, I was declared the proud owner of a sinus infection, and given a prescription for antibiotics.

The doc on call was very nice, and as he wrote out the prescription he told me that these drugs can be hard on your stomach, so be sure to take them with food. I nodded. “Also,” he added, “they can make your birth control less effective, so just be aware of that.”

I tried to stifle a giggle. “Really?” I said.

“Yes, that’s important to know,” he said.

“Huh,” I said. “Because I had a hysterectomy ten years ago, so I’m pretty impressed with these drugs if they can make me pregnant.”

I know, I know. You can’t take me anywhere. Thankfully, he laughed.

Later when I went to the pharmacy, the pharmacist came over to tell me that these pills could make my birth control less effective. I am now considering a little tattoo that says UTERUSLESS, just for fun. (On the other hand, I am flattered that people assume I am still young enough to have babies, I guess.)

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The rest of Saturday was spent in various permutations of delivering fruit locally (Otto and Chickadee) and closer to Atlanta (Monkey and me) because I’d driven in towards the Big City to take Monkey to a friend’s party. I also drove another friend of theirs, and it was rainy and gross outside and my ears were bleeding from listening to the boys talk endlessly about Dungeons & Dragons, so I asked them if they’d mind if I put on a podcast. They kind of shrugged and I started up an episode of “Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!” All was well; I had something to listen to, and the boys continued chatting.

Of course, I forgot that occasionally Wait Wait gets a little bawdy, so it figures that there was a lull in the conversation just as this particular episode veered into a prolonged discussion of homosexual insects. (“They don’t bother to get to know each other the way the rest of us do, you know, seeing if they like the same books, have the same hobbies, and whether or not they both have penises.”) I realized the boys were listening intently and I tried to decide if I needed to turn it off. I mean, they’re both just a few weeks shy of 14. But they’re also both… kind of sheltered and naive. (And we like them that way.) (Plus I have no worries about corrupting my own children, but I try not to do it to other people’s kids.)

After a pause, Monkey’s friend said, “This show is weird.”

I’m thinking it’s possible that I will not be allowed to drive that kid anywhere again. We’ll see.

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On Sunday we decided that maybe it was finally time to put up the Christmas tree, except of course—being me—I had made this as complicated as possible. See, I have this LOVELY fiber-optic tree I got for 90% off one year at Target and I LURVE it. It’s cute. But it’s only 6 feet tall and every year poor Otto bemoans not just that we can’t have a live tree (allergies!) but that our tree is so… wee. It never used to bother me, but it’s become somewhat full over the years, what with the accumulation of ornaments and the tree itself not getting any larger.

So. This year I bought us a new tree. It was a great deal! It was on sale! I had credit! Shipping was free! The angels sang! And then… I realized we had nowhere that said tree would actually FIT. Whoops! But it’s the size of a real Christmas tree and that’s all that really matters, right??

Yesterday we moved furniture around until our family room looked like it had been arranged by drunk hoarders and then set up the new, lush, giant tree. The good news is that the new tree is simply three sections which attach to one another and fold out, and assembling them takes approximately 45 seconds. The bad news is that once you’ve done that, you need to spend an hour “fluffing” all the branches out, because the tree was packed down to the size of a tube of toothpaste to fit into the shipping box.

After a long while, the tree was up, the lights were on, the star was glowing away on top, and… no one wanted to do the ornaments because the tree had taken so long. Well. Maybe tonight we’ll actually decorate it. At which point I’ll discover that now we don’t have ENOUGH ornaments, natch.

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Bonus doggie update: I took the dogs to the groomer this morning because Licorice needed to be clipped and Duncan needed a nail trim. (Yes, I should trim his nails myself. I feel like I’ve been violating him so much with all the medicated baths and stuff that I just wanted someone else to deal with his talons today.) Duncan was not pleased about one person holding him while the other one snipped away, but the second they put him down and offered him some treats he was all happiness and joy. He trotted out of there like he owned the place.

This led to me coming home and letting Otto know that Duncan is indeed very much A Guy, because Licorice holds a grudge, glares at the groomer, refuses the treats, and comes home in a snit, whereas Duncan was affronted and then three seconds later was all OHBOYOHBOYILOVETREATS YOUARETHEBEST!

Otto seemed offended by this, so I hastened to add that clearly Duncan is good at compartmentalization. You know, like guys are. Like, um, never mind, honey. I just meant to say that Duncan is a really good dog, that’s all. Also, hey, any dinner requests? LOVE YOU!