I had to vote quickly and hurry home this evening.  What was the big rush?  My Honey had to run down to the jail and bail someone out.  I totally thought he was kidding when he told me.  I thought that crap ended when we turn 40.  Isabella says that craps ends when you turn 25.  I guess My Honey is just a good guy.  He just left the house – it’s 8:30 – to go see if he’s been processed out so he can give him a ride home.

We were speculating what his friend might have done to get into this trouble in the first place.  My Honey hasn’t been able to speak with him directly – just with the County Defender.  So we were discussing it over dinner.  Probably not the best conversation to have with the short people listening in, but if we had censored ourselves then we would have missed The Bandit’s speculation for the incarceration.

“Maybe he got into a sword fight! Or he pushed someone into hot lava!”

The kid slays me.

Later, the kids were getting ready for bed.  They were running around and yelling and making a ton of noise as usual.  I try to tune them out most of the time.  But one time, The Bandit zoomed by me and what he was saying broke through my invisible (and wholly ineffective) Cone of Silence and I tuned in to what he was saying.

He was running up and down the hall, his head thrown back and he was wailing dramatically, “OH NO! My dad is in jail!”

Who wants to bet money I get a call from the day care tomorrow with an offering of condolences?

I think that this may become essential to my well being. 

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good girl this year….

Apparently the people in England have had access to this already this year.  Here is the info on it.

A Watch Phone Fit for James Bond
The LG Watch Phone (LG-GD910), besides being available only in the land of James Bond, carries a price you might associate with MI6 paraphernalia — the equivalent of $825.  British buyers of the Watch Phone also get stereo Bluetooth and even a VGA camera for video calling. Most of the phone’s functions are voice-activated and an on-screen keyboard lets you send text messages.  Each hand-made Watch Phone has a 1.43-inch-wide display and has one of eight watch-face designs.

I don’t have a chimney so you can send the package care of TheQuillSisters.

Thank you, Santa.

My Honey was going over the spelling words with Sassy tonight.  They are, not surprisingly, Thanksgiving themed words.  I know what you’re thinking…words like feast and turkey, Indian and native.  You would be right.  Those words are on there along with 16 others.  Some of them are harder than others.  I understand that they are meant to be challenging.  However, one of her words is Wampanoag.  Holy Mother of God.  I’m a really good speller.  I also have a pretty firm grasp on American History.  I’m also not 6.  I had to double check Wampanoag. 

All I have to say is YOWZA!

So the Brights loaded up the covered wagon and trekked through the desert to our favorite 5 year old’s birthday party today.   There are two things of note that I’d like to mention.

1.) There were babies there.  Twins – a boy and a girl, and they were beyond adorable.  They’re at that perfect baby age where they are sitting up and considering standing, but they’re really not that mobile yet.  They giggle and grin and are fascinated by everything.  I lay on the floor with them for a while and played, and God help me I could feel my womb expanding.  I even went so far as to voice the fact that I wanted one.  The real kicker was that they smelled like cake.  Now that’s hardly fair, in fact, it’s  bordering on cruel.   

However, those little eggs shriveled right up when I noticed the Mommy and Daddy of those twins packing up to go home.   I remembered lugging the baby seat, and the mini high chair, and the 85 pound bag of baby essentials that you can’t leave the house without.  I’m good now.  We’re lowering the Baby Alert Level back to yellow.  I’m not quite ready to dip all the way back to blue yet, but it’s my night to give Sassy and The Bandit baths so we should be safely back to green by morning.

2.)  We’ve all heard about the Demon Dog at Isabella’s house.  I finally met Max and My Honey and I were much amused by this dog.  It was perfectly well behaved they entire time we were there.  Max would think about standing up and Isabella would say, “Max, go sit next to Grandma” and we were absolutely amazed that he would go do exactly that.  We had no idea dogs did this.  When we try to tell Roscoe to go sit down, we  have to yell each word singly as he zooms by  on another lap, baying like a fool with his tongue lolling out.

“Rosco………….go……………sit…………..down!” 

Isabella tried to tell us that Max chews on everything.  No, actually Roscoe chews on everything.  EVERYTHING.  I can’t emphasize this enough.  He will chew on soft things, hard things, sharp things, things that taste bad, even things that are still moving.  He has eaten whole squash, pumpkins, onions, a chili pepper (that gave me no small amount of amusement, I’ll tell you), entire loaves of bread, scads of cookies, a box of cereal, spaghetti and lasagna noodles, to mention only a few things.  No toy is safe.

With Roscoe, commands are really more of a compromise. 

“OK, you can chew on everything just not on the cat.”

“OK, you can knock down one kid but not both of them.”

Not only that, I will bet you a million dollars, Max doesn’t climb up on the kitchen table to take a nap.

Here are a couple of things I’ve been wondering about lately.  Perhaps some of you have answers that will ease my troubled soul.

1.) Why can’t children ever put caps back on markers?

2.) Why, when there are possibly 10,000 crayons loose about this house, must my son still rummage through my desk to find pens?

3.) If there is 2500 sq. feet in my house, why do the children constantly need to be within 2 feet of me at all times?

4.) Why are children even issued ears?  But since they are, why are they calibrated to the point that they can only hear me when I resort to yelling?

5.) Why is my boy so obsessed with hot lava? Is this a boy thing or just my boy?  Tonight I’m reading him Bambi from the Walt Disney Treasury, and he interrupts me to ask, “When do we get to the hot lava part?”

6.) How come, no matter how many times I say, “I’m driving. I can’t look,” my daughter will insist, over and over and over, that I look at what she’s drawn or how she’s dressed her Barbie.  Even repeating it IMMEDIATLEY after I just told her I couldn’t look.  Please see question 4 for a follow up.

These are just a few of the things I’ve wondered in the last several days.  If you have any insights, please let me know.

I memorized this poem in high school.  This one and Anabelle Lee.  Ah, those were the days when I was stupidly romantic.  Now I don’t know what my excuse is.

I’ve already established that I talk a lot.  However, I’m not sure that it’s totally clear that I am also exceedingly dramatic.  If I weren’t so shy, I’d be convinced that I missed my calling.   

If I’m feeling nervous, I have this terrible tendency to “perform”.  I’ll hear words coming out of my mouth that I am literally powerless to stop.  Everyone will be laughing and enjoying whatever funny tale I’m telling.  I’ll be gesturing wildly and making comical expressions, and the whole time, in my head, I’m screaming, “For the love of God, shut up!”  Alas, I can’t.  It’s really quite dreadful.

Kurt, (Hey Kurt!) says I’m full of self created drama, but the truth is, not anymore.  That was the Amy in her 20’s.  Amy in her 40’s likes a nice quiet life….well I’m sure I would if I ever got a moments piece and quiet.  Once again, that’s not the point of this post.  I started off right and then just meandered way off into left field. 

Let me give you an example of my drama.  My line of work is very stressful and sometimes a little drama actually lessons the tension.  I remember once, when something went horribly, drastically wrong, I went over to another co-workers cubicle and laid down on the floor until she noticed me.  It was all just too much to take standing up.  If I come into your office and suggest that you lay down on the floor with me for a minute, you can bet it’s not good news.

In the 1800’s, I’m fairly sure I would have been one of those women who “got the vapors”.  Often times, I suspect I look and act suspiciously like a Muppet. 

The reason for this little bit of character examination was that I scared the hell out of one of my co-workers today.  I didn’t intend to.  Honestly.  In fact, my bit of drama wasn’t even intended for other people’s eyes.  It was a rough day.  It seemed that everything I touched burst into flames.  At one point I flopped down in my chair,  heaved a beleaguered sigh, and flung my top half on my desk.  I lay there, face down on my file, my arms hanging limp at my sides.  My poor friend turned around and quite literally screamed my name.  The poor thing thought that something had happened to me; a stroke, a heart attack, or some other very real catastrophe.   All the rest of our cube mates stood up and looked over the walls, either out of genuine concern for me, or more likely, out of the very real hope that there would be something good to gossip about. 

And all I could do was laugh.  Really, I am very sorry, T.  I’d repent, but we all know that at the very next opportunity, I’ll do something else dramatic so there’s no point in pretending.

I can’t live the lie, T.  I just can’t.  But, it would totally serve me right if I die a slow painful death at my desk while everyone ignores me.

My sweet Sassy got her report card today.  She did really well – as I expected.  However, this was the note on the back

“I encourage Sassy to continue to practice talking at appropriate times during classroom activities and work time.”

That poor child doesn’t stand a chance.  I spent my entire 2nd and 3rd grades in the corner for talking, and I distinctly remember my freshman English teacher saying, “If anybody talks, I’m moving Amy.”  That was the only trouble I ever got into at school.  My poor parents were down for more parent/teacher conferences that I care to think about.

The girls at work posted this at my cubicle:

I’ll admit.  I have a lot to say.  Most of it interesting or funny, or at the very least I’d like to think the delivery is good.  I certainly have an audience that wants to hear my silly stories.  I can’t help it and neither can the girl.

I only hope that the chairs they put in the corners these day have less splinters.

I tried to kill myself this weekend and I don’t even remember how.  The result is I have a blue goose egg on my forehead.  I can remember that I was in the laundry room, but I can’t remember anything after that.  Well about the accident – I do remember where I live, who the people are in the house, and that I still have massive amounts of revisions to do on that damn book. 

I remember hitting my head hard enough that I thought I was going to fall down and I grabbed on to the washing machine to steady myself.  After the mind searing pain left and my eyes stopped watering and the cursing petered out, I honestly can’t remember what I hit my head on. 

People I have told about this have thought that my forgetfulness is very alarming.  I’m not alarmed.  Not at all.  I am absurdly accident prone.  I hit, bang, bash, smash, pinch, and collide with things on a regular basis.  Often times I’ll even say out loud, “Wow, that’s gonna leave a mark” and then later I’ll remove my shirt and think, “Good Lord, where did I get that bruise?”

This incident was related to me by My Honey this weekend. 

He and Sassy and The Bandit were leaving Bandit’s soccer game on Saturday.  They piled into the pickup and headed off to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream snack since it was still in the high 90s.  I know – isn’t that ridiculous for the last week of October?  Anyway, the girl was driving the boy crazy.  Apparently it was all nag nag nag and yap yap yap from the back seat.  Finally the boy had had enough.

“Sassy, I am not having this conversation,” he told her.

I love that.  At four years old he’s finally getting the verbal skills to do more than just scream at her.  Eventually, he’s going to get tired of the physical abuse as well.  And lord help me, but I won’t stop him.

I’m an older sister – I know how the torment went.  My Honey, a younger brother himself, tells me all the time, “Older sisters suck.”

I can’t deny it.  I once handcuffed my younger brother to the mailbox for an hour while my parents were out of the house.