Never forget the thumb.

A few days back, Harper decided that along with being a Doctor of Bunnies, she would also like to work in a nail salon when she grows up.

She knows how important experience is when applying for a position in a nail salon, so she asked Jeff if he would like to be her first customer.

Prep

He sat down on the (sort of filthy) kitchen floor and gathered his nerves as Harper prepared her polishes.

It isn’t often that the girls notice Jeff’s missing toe. (Long story short for those who aren’t aware: Jeff accidentally cut off his thumb while working in a blacksmith shop several years ago. A plastic surgeon decided to amputate his toe and place it where the missing thumb used to be. All is well, and Jeff still plays basketball.) Anyway, Harper felt a bit cheated when she realized that she had five polishes, and only nine toes.

Harper: Give me the thumb.

Don't Forget the Thumb

When the polish dried, Harper encouraged Jeff to show off his complete set of freshly painted toes.

Full Set

The next day, when Jeff went to work, his boss immediately noticed the sparkly toe thumb.

Later that evening, Jeff and the girls went to the pool, where I’m sure the other dads admired his rainbow toes.

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Am I forgetting anything?

Shirts (long/short), skirts, tights, jeans, underclothes, cardigan, shoes, jewelry, and socks.

Makeup and remover and fiber and deodorant and pills and retainer and camera and hair goo.

Pajamas and book (The Elegance of the Hedgehog and Shirley Jackson) and iPod and yarn (with patterns) and travel notebook (with pens).

Almonds and coffee.

Ziploc bags.

(Lines three and four are the most important to me.)

Enjoy your week!

(I’ve scheduled a post to go up all by itself on Tuesday, and am wondering if that sort of thing actually works. Apologies for leaving you in Suspense.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

It’s hip to be square.

Before I even started typing this post, I hesitated.

Because it’s about my maladies. (Look away, Reader Eddie. These are the posts that burn you to bits!)

Admittedly, my maladies are lame. AND, the only reason I’m even USING the word malady is because I like to pronounce it mah-LAY-dee, as in “Would you fancy a cup of tea, mah-LAY-dee?”

This morning I loaded up the girls and took them to see my doctor. I’ve been waking up with one hell of a backache for the past three weeks, and it doesn’t really matter how much I bend and flex and worm around on the floor—it’s not getting better. I would continue to ride this storm out, but we’re leaving in a few days and I really don’t feel like going all Fred Sanford with a cane in Wyoming. Also, I’ve got a spot on my hip. <—Did you notice that? Totally secondary to the back thing.

My doctor laid me down (Billy Joe’s “Piano Man” was playing in the background. My doctor had me feeling alright.), checked out a few things, asked a few questions, and decided that a week-long course of anti-inflammatory drugs paired up with a few muscle relaxants and some exercises will have me Couch to 5K-ing in no time. (As if.)

Me: Oh! I also want to show you this thing on my hip.

Doctor: What’s going on?

Me (all red-faced and trying to pull my too-tight skirt over my cushioned hip): I’ve got this spot thing that showed up a few weeks ago, and now it looks like it’s growing and, well, I can’t wear pants that touch it because yee-ow!

Doctor (examining the map of South America that is slowly forming on my right side): Ooh. Is it draining at all?

Me: I don’t want to talk about it. Um, no. It’s not draining. But it feels like an eruption could take place near Paraguay.

Doctor (poking me): I think you’ve got a touch of cellulitis.

So, anyway. It looks like I’ve got a touch of cellulitis. And now I want to show it to you, because I’ve got a blog. (Please know that according to Wikipedia, Cellulitis is unrelated (except etymologically) to Cellulite. Except etymologically. I love that.)

NotMyButt

And let’s just get something straight. It appears that I am showing you my butt in this photo. By now, we all know that I would never do such a thing. Please be aware that the spot is actually above my hip bone. I have no idea what sort of contorted move I did to make it look like I was dropping low on the skirt. Anyway. This photo? Totally rated PG. And another thing: Since when do I have an Adam’s apple?!

I should end on a positive note. In the above photo, I like my pointed shoulder. I also don’t mind the crazy veins that sit on my fourth knuckle. Best of all? I’m wearing a Nashville Flood Tee.

Okay, then. Back to your day.
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Dear Salad: Be what you want to be.

Me, calling into a local dive restaurant: Hello there! I have a Buy One, Get One Free Entrée coupon, and I was wondering if a salad counts as an entrée.

Guy of Local Dive (GOLD): A salad is not an entrée, Ma’am.

Me (feeling sort of ridiculous): Is a sandwich an entrée?

GOLD: I don’t think a sandwich is an entrée. You have to order from the Entrée section of the menu.

Me (holding back tears of laughter/pain): Okay, well, I have your menu in front of me right now, and I’m not seeing anything that’s labeled Entrée.

GOLD: I’ve never actually seen our menu, so I’m not sure how to help you at this point.

Wait. I want to repeat that (in italics!) for you.

GOLD: I’ve never actually seen our menu, so I’m not sure how to help you at this point.

And I should have asked for a manager, but I believe my time would be better spent actually driving to the restaurant and giving GOLD an awkward hug. And then we’ll eat cheesecake. As an entrée. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m now taking a probiotic pill, so there’s that!

This morning I remembered that I’ve been meaning to check in on Fluid Pudding. So, hello there! The past week has been insanely hectic, but I can’t really name more than five things that we’ve done. (Such is the life of the sporadic freelancer/perky homemaker I suppose. Jeff returns from work in the evening, and I often cannot report on any sort of progress that I’ve made during the past nine hours. Perhaps I should start charting my input and output. I really do need to drink more. I sometimes have pillow creases that last until the evening hours!) ((Note: Jeff doesn’t really ask me to report on progress. I’m not sure how I would respond if he did.))

Speaking of Jeff, it seems that his job leads him out of town every year over the Memorial Day weekend. It all has to do with a human anatomy and physiology symposium (this particular one was in  Denver), and if I wasn’t completely secure in our relationship, I might suspect that “human anatomy and physiology symposium” is a pretty clever way of saying “out of town tail” but deep down I know better. (I’m the perfect blend of lovely and psychotic. No one in their right mind would ever stray.) Anyway, this symposium forced me to single parent once again, and that experience never fails to lift me toward a new level of appreciation for those who single parent every day. I wish I could buy each and every one of you a funnel cake.

Let’s see. Harper and Meredith had their yearly examination at the doctor’s office this afternoon, and Harper received what we like to call her kindergarten shot, which is the simpleton way of saying she is now immunized against Diphtheria, Tetanus, Pertussis, and Polio. (Oh, Pertussis. You are definitely not welcome around here.) And I know how controversial this sort of thing is, so I’ll now point my finger in the other direction and scream, “Hey! We’re leaving to go on vacation in a little over a week!” AND, someone will actually be staying at our house during that time, meaning I really should do something about the 84 baskets of laundry that have been sitting around in the front room for the past several months. (Believe me, my intentions are always good. It’s just that I’m often L to the AZY. That hairball thing has been growing in the shower for weeks.)

Anyway: Vacation. I’m very pleased to report that we’ll be heading out to Jackson Hole, Wyoming in about ten days. And wait a second. Do you remember a few paragraphs up how I sort of complained that Jeff has a job that sometimes takes him out of town? Well, because he’s sort of good at his job, he was recently given the Editor of the Year award, which included this very vacation. Seriously. L to the AZY is sort of schmooing into L to the UCKY. (Clarification: I’m the lucky one. Jeff totally earned this gig.)

What else? I’ll tell you what else! I purchased three skeins of laceweight merino a few nights back. I haven’t purchased yarn in months, but as soon as I saw the phrase “1,312 yards” coupled with “$16.00” and “Fleece Artist”, I couldn’t resist. And while we’re sort of on the topic of yarn, this morning I fell in love with a yarn store in London that isn’t yet open, but will be in a few weeks. Anyway. Are you still with me?

We’ve been doing an awful lot of this lately:

FroYo

I hope you are the same.

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Ending the Year on a High Note

Today was the last day of this particular school year. As I’ve mentioned in the past, every morning I drive Meredith to school, and every morning the coach gets her out of the car with a smile and a “Good morning, Meredith!” (This is the coach involved in the Great Hat Drama of January 2010. But let’s not talk about that.) This morning we happened to arrive at school before the coach came out to retrieve kids from their cars. As we sat and listened to Justin Bieber (Yep. Let’s not talk about that, either.), Coach exited the building (always so cheerful!) and started opening car doors for kids. When we got a bit closer, I noticed that he was carrying a note in his hand.

Me (simply killing time as we waited our turn in the circle): Hey! Coach has a note in his hand! I wonder what it says.

Meredith: It probably says, “Christmas is coming, and I need to buy a present for Meredith.”

Me: Excellent. I hope he gets a present for me, too!

Harper: I know exactly what that note says.

Me: What does it say?

Harper: It says, “Don’t forget to take off your underpants right now.”

Me: That’s not what it says. Do you realize how inappropriate that is?

Harper: I do. Let me try again. I bet it says, “Take off your PANTS right now.”

Me: Interesting. Who do you think the note is for?!

Coach (opening the door and hopefully not noticing my perky eyebrows): Good morning, Meredith!!!

(Apparently, it wasn’t for me.)
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Some apples barely fall from the tree.

Meredith’s elementary school is hosting their annual field day on Monday.

If I understand the process correctly, during the field day each child chooses a few events in which to participate. Events include activities like baton relay races, distance jumping, potato sack scrambles, bean bag tosses, et cetera. (Jeff has taken a half day of vacation so he can help out with something that I believe involves vulcanized rubber tires, raw sweet potatoes, and a baby manatee. The details are a bit fuzzy to me.)

Me: Meredith, are you excited about the field day?

Meredith: I’m VERY excited about the field day!

Me: Have you chosen your events?

Meredith: I’ve chosen one event that I’m very good at.

Me: Excellent! What is it?

Meredith: It’s called Snack Bar.

Me: How do you play Snack Bar?

Meredith: It’s easy! You go there and you POLITELY ask for a popsicle or some water, and I’ve heard they might even have crackers this year!

(If you need to write a report on Behavioral Genetics, Meredith and I will meet you for popsicles.)
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The photos serve as antihypertension vehicles.

So, I’ve got this happening on my front porch.
...is a rose is a rose is a rose, et cetera

And I’ve got this happening twice each week.
Karate Kid

I started my summer project.
Vernal Equinox, Clue Two
(It will eventually look like this.)

And yesterday I made a blackberry cobbler. (It didn’t last long enough for photographs.)

Seven more days of school.

Only seven more days of school.
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I’ll kick your can!

So, Thursday evening found us Jeffless and without kitty litter. (Jeff was in New York. The litter was doing what litter tends to do, which is Clumping.)

After calling four different stores, we (meaning I) finally found a place that carries our (meaning My) favorite litter, and that litter is called Scoop Away!

Pet Store Lady at Register (P-SLAR): Ah ha! Did you just call here about Scoop Away!?

Me: That was me! I couldn’t remember where I bought it last time, and I didn’t want to settle for Tidy Cats.

P-SLAR: You should NEVER settle for Tidy Cats! Scoop Away! is the only litter I use. I HAVE SIX CATS!!!

Me: I have only two cats, but you’re totally preaching to the choir. We’ve tried just about every brand out there, and Scoop Away! is the only thing that really clumps and—

P-SLAR: AND DOESN’T TASTE LIKE PISS AND PERFUME!

Me: What?!

P-SLAR: If you’ve tried everything out there, you know exactly what I’m talking about!

Okay, people. I know she probably meant to say “doesn’t SMELL like piss and perfume,” but the fact remains that I’m 40 years old (see how I’m throwing that around now?!) and I really have no idea what contaminated litter tastes like. And I realize that I will probably die NOT knowing what it tastes like (my best guess really would have been Piss and Perfume), but that doesn’t change the notion that there are SO many things of which I have absolutely zero knowledge! I really need to start attacking with a bit more energy, because what if I die before I realize an undiscovered passion?! (Feta cheese and chocolate chips stirred together? Surprisingly good! Also, I’m a big fan of the Hooey Stick! Knowledge is Power!)

Goal For the Day: Say No when Yes feels like too much of a compromise, and say Yes when it’s more adventuresome than No!

Even Better Goal for the Day: Pulled Smoked Pork Sliders!

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