While driving down the Road Away from the
compound house to Somewhere or Another:
LG: Gim*! Gim! Go, go, go Gim!
Me: Kim? You want to go see Miss Kim?
Me: Sorry, bubby. We aren't going to Miss Kim's house right now. We got to see her yesterday, didn't we? And who else lives at Miss Kim's house?
LG: No. No gim. Gim. Shaka, shaka gim. Up in da air.
Me: Shaka shaka? Did you shake something at Miss Kim's house? Who did you play with at Miss Kim's house? Who's toys did you play with?
LG: Arghhhhhh. No gim, mama.
Me: Did you play with Caleb at Miss Kim's house?
LG: (Sighs) Caweb. Bwoks. Mi Gim hows.
Me: That's right, bubby. You played with Caleb and his blocks at Miss Kim's house. What else did we do this week?
LG: Gim! Shaka shaka up in da air. Gim!
Me: Gim? Are you saying Kim, bubby? Say Kim.
LG: No Gim, mama. Handas. Shaka shaka up in da air. Gim!
*Lightbulb flashes blindingly*
Me: Gym? You mean when we went to the gym? And played with the parachute? We held the handles and shook it and threw it up in the air? Was that fun?
LG: Gim. Fun. (Stuffs blankie back into his mouth and looks out the window.)
*pronounced with the hard "g". Otherwise I'd just be a total moron.
While driving down the Road Away from the
1. The back of my new couch, after meeting with the business end of a green crayon.
Apparently our resident artist felt the need to experiment on a larger canvas.
Fortunately the microfiber fabric lived up to its claims of durability and ease of clean-ability. Well, maybe not "ease", per se, but after an hour or so of dedicated scrubbing at the back of the couch with a paper towel, I'm pleased to report that you'd have to actually look directly at the couch to see where the damage was done. Which is actually a dramatic improvement from the plutonium green glow that captivated your peripherals upon entering the room that we had when we started.
2. My right ear. From burning it on the iron. That I heated up just in case I needed to further melt the wax from the incident above. Unfortunately, the microfiber fabric lived up to its claims etc. and I forgot that I had heated up the iron and placed it nearby to be within easy reaching distance. Or, as it turns out, easy ear burning distance if one were to get so caught up in the relative ease of cleaning said wax off said couch and forget that one had heated up the iron for such a reason as stated above and enthusiastically lean just a little bit further to the right to reeeaaach that little mark over there...
The part that hurts the most is that it's hard to garner sympathy when you tell someone that you burnt your ear on the iron.
3. Possibly LG. Who walked into our bedroom last night while we were, er, snuggling. We won't know for sure what he saw or how much it's going to cost us until he starts therapy for all the other issues that he is going to have to work through as a result of being the fruit of our loins (I get to have loins too, right?). However, I can absolutely say that the pitter-patter of size 2T fire-truck feety pajamas at the doorway is the Bizarro-world equivalent to Viagra. If you don't understand what I'm trying to say, just believe me when I say you don't want to know what I mean, Mom. I sure as hell am not going to explain it any further to you. That's just a conversation we don't need to have.
Our microwave displays the message "Enjoy your meal" when you open the door after it has finished its cooking cycle.
It irritates me. To my way of thinking, a cup of tea does not a meal make. Nor does a bowl of peas. And what if I need to melt a tablespoon of butter? The assumption that I'm going to serve melted butter for dinner really bugs me.
Is it wrong that I've begun composing snarky responses in my head as I walk across the room upon hearing the "beep-ba-beep" signal? As long as I don't vocalize, I haven't crossed any lines, right?
All stuck behind the mass of humdrum that is currently filling my head. Clever snippets flit by and I grab at them, but am forced to release them or get trapped by my clenched fist in the raccoon trap blahness that my brain has become.* Because I'm fairly certain that reliving and revealing the number of loads of laundry I did today is not going to make for scintillating reading, no matter how the retelling might be punctuated with wry commentary. And? That there were no unmatched socks at the end of said laundry loads? That being the highlight of my day? Is making for a crapitude of flaming bag o' poo bloggary. Turds, all of 'em. Just waiting to be lit in a moment of filter failure and then placed on your virtual doorstep seconds before GoogleReader presses your blog-bell. I'm keeping my post-happy fingers on a short leash, waiting for some literary fiber to come clear me out.
Please, watch where you step. One way or another, I'm afraid it's going to be messy in here for a while.
*Let the fact that I've spent the last 45 minutes rewriting and rewording this sentence and it still in no way resembles the poetic brilliance of the mental snapshot** that I am trying to put into word form serve as further proof of how not-feeling-it I am.
**Complete with fluffy raccoons! And mason jars! And bright, shiny objects that the sweet little masked balls of fluff refuse to let go of in the bottom of the mason jars so that the combination of their refusal to let go and their sweet furry fists have effectively trapped them! And somehow they are unable to simply take off with the mason jars! Despite the reality of raccoons probably not being attracted to shiny objects, what with their nocturnal nature and all, and the whole "being so much bigger than the average mason jar that should Sweet & Furry ever find himself in such a predicament, he could surely just run off WITH the mason jar ON his fist, take it back to his lair, smash it there, and THEN enjoy the bright, shiny object of his desire" thing! I never said the snapshot made sense! Just that it was poetic! Am stopping now before my ability to use other forms of punctuation is completely eradicated!