Saturday, June 2, 2012
It's a lot like life
This is how this week feels. I did stuff. I ate stuff. I said some stuff. Chloe is sick, Sophie is bored, the cats are flea'd, and MathMan and Nate are baseballed.
Summer, as determined by human activities and not the calendar, is here and it's the first one since 2009 in which I won't be home with the rest of the gang. It's going to be a little strange. Good strange, as long as they don't turn the house into something fit to be featured on Hoarders.
I've banned their idea for creating a backyard demolition derby track and the scheme for the 24/7 yard sale. They can call me all the names they like. I'm not budging on these issues.
Let's just say I'll be satisfied if they're generally awake before 2pm and we don't get a visit from the PoPo, the Health Department or the Department of Family Services.
Trending! Wives. Not because we're aces at putting our needs last, but because we're THE hot book title. The Soldier's Wife. The Sniper's Wife. The Fireman's Wife. The Diplomat's Wife. The Paris Wife. The Shoemaker's Wife. The Math Teacher's Wife. Well, okay, not yet. But it could happen.
Some bits that have been lying around in my drafts waiting for a chance to embarrass themselves. Quotes heard around the house...
"You have now reached Most Favored Child status. The other two can just suck it."
"I couldn't sleep. I was buried under sixty pounds of, um.......cat. Did you hear that, sick parent? C-A-T."
"I did too take a shower.....well, I mean, I was going to take a shower......it doesn't matter, I swam yesterday."
"I figured 'why dirty a bowl?' I can eat the sherbet from this container just as easily. And look how I can balance it here on my front porch."
"You have to be pretty bored to think that taking a shower should be considered 'something to do.'"
And a bonus vignette which is a fancy word for something......
"Oh my god, you keep delivering the best lines that I can't blog because the context would be either too weird, too obscure or too embarrassing to explain."
He tossed me a glance over his shoulder. "You're a writer. You'll figure it out."
What a wicked thing to say.
Nevertheless, he's right. Probably. But how can I set up the joke that ends with the punchline "Breast milk makes me gassy?"
Has summer started for you? What does that mean anyway?