In which the time change breaks us all
You know, I read all of these posts out there bitching about the time change over the last few days, and I was all smug and “Pffft! Time change! No sweat!” but I am here to tell you now that I was in DENIAL and I am ready to repent.
Bless me, internet, for I have sinned. Everything is just WRONG and yes, YES, I ADMIT IT, I cannot handle changing the clocks by one hour. It is more than my wee, delicate little cortex can handle. And the children, forget it. They weren’t all that stable to begin with, you know. Now they are both insufferable AND sleep-deprived. Well, they were. Until I ate them. Which happened this evening right around the time that I finished chiselling the toothpaste scum off of every surface in their bathroom and Monkey spat an impressive mouthful anew on the freshly scrubbed faucet.
They were delicious, tasting predominantly of blueberry pop-tarts with just a faint hint of french fries.
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As I choke on my tea and chuckle ruefully
(And, apparently, rhyme.)
To the person who came here searching for this information:
1) Sorry. I suspect you were disappointed in what you found.
2) I’m not sure I remember how.
3) Even if I do, I’m not giving lessons.
The best things in life are free
I’d like to thank everyone who chimed in on the previous post for both maintaining civility and proving that I’m not the only spiteful, overly emotional one in the bunch. Sometimes, immaturity loves company. That said, it is my intention to get to the bottom of my feelings and then, hopefully, dispose of them. Wasted energy. I have some work to do on myself and I’ll get it done… just consider the prior rant my little “But I don’t WANNA!” tantrum. I’m done now.
May I come out of the naughty corner? I promise to be good.
In fact, in my continuing quest to better know myself, I’ve been thinking about expenses, recently. I spend a lot of time obsessing about money. It’s a little hobby of mine. Less harmful than fire-eating but more annoying than, say, knitting. I’m just trying to strike the happy medium, you understand.
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Ghosts of vorpal bunnies past
I don’t know that it’s my favorite part of The Holy Grail–there are so many fabulous parts–but I’ve always had something of a fascination with the killer rabbit. It’s the perfect comic setup, right? Something that should be cute and sweet and cuddly and harmless ends up being deadly. That’s hilarious.
And it’s funny, in part, because it’s ridiculous. But it’s also funny because it’s such a silly representation of what happens all the time.
Nothing is more part of the human condition than betrayal by people who should love us or–at the very least–be on our side. Nothing is more a part of MY condition than agonizing over how to move past such things.
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… and “Sucker” was her name-O!
Chickadee is fully recovered. I am grappling with some mix of virus and allergies which has my sinuses going completely haywire, resulting in a monster headache for most of my waking hours. Monkey’s tolerance for… well… ANYTHING is plummetting rapidly, suggesting that he may be coming down with whatever this bug is.
So naturally, being the bright and logical person I am, I thought it would be a great idea to schlep the entire gang over to Family Bingo Night at school yesterday. Because what could be better for a couple of kids than having to sit still at a table for a prolonged period of time, in a place where there is a table heaped with possible prizes that they likely won’t be winning?
I’m going to blame my lapse in judgement on the sinus thing. Shut up.
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How to be sick
A handy guide to your convalescence, according to the wisdom of one of the world’s foremost not-quite-eight-year-old melodramatic possible-hypochondriacs.
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The tragedy of being
Apropos of absolutely nothing, I feel the need to discuss typing. Right here, right now. Can you touch type? I can touch type, if by “touch type” you mean “type rapidly without looking at the keys.” But if you take “touch type” to mean “type the way they teach you in school,” then no, I admit it. I cannot.
I suffer from a rare disorder known as… ummm… Uncoordinated Pinkies.
So I touch type, but I move my hands around too much, because I cannot, in fact, use my pinkies to depress keys. My pinkies are useless. With my current method, I can still type about 80 wpm. Just imagine how speedy I’d be if I typed properly!
Okay, we now return you to our regularly scheduled somewhat cohesive post.
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Cranky. Swamped. Crawamped?
Oh, whoops. Did I forget to post last night? I did. I actually considered posting, but it kept coming out sort of like this:
Grumble, whine, grrrrr, hate hate hate, WAAAAH.
Fascinating, I know, but it seemed like I ought to spare you.
Today I have about fifty gazillion deadlines looming (yes, I rock at math) and so you will have to find some other way to entertain yourselves. But, because I am all about the love and the sharing, I will help.
Make sure your speakers are on, then go watch this. Very, very cool. (Thanks, Rudy!)
Sometimes I wish I was a yak
Before I begin, I’d like to let everyone know that the very pretty Shelley is holding a contest called She’s Funny That Way. The winner will receive a copy of Shelley’s book and so you should go read all about it and enter and all of that good stuff. Okay? Okay!
Besides, we all know someone funny we can write about. Except me. All I can write about at the moment is that I am old and stupid. And not a yak.
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If you don’t like the weather…
I grew up in one of those obstinate climates where it often snowed in May, where the cloudy days stretched on forever (it sometimes seemed), and where the rare perfect day made it all seem worth it.
I didn’t know, at the time, that I was living in the Land of the Parenting Metaphor.
Sometimes, you have days where it seems like a pat on the back is warranted. Just look! At my kids! They are SO WONDERFUL!
Just don’t forget your umbrella.
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