This is disjointed.  Bear with me.  If I can’t organize it any better for this blog, imagine what it’s like in my head.

The other evening, My Honey woke me up to tell me that he was going to Dunkin Donuts.  We were going to have a very busy morning, Saturday, and he figured it would be the best way to get the short people up and moving out of the house on time.  He returned shortly after with no donuts.  Apparently they were out.  Really?  Dunkin Donuts was out of donuts?  Are they unaware of the title of their shop?

I really think that it’s unfair that I get a headache if I take a nap in the middle of the day.  My neurologist asked me to keep a headache diary  so he could see just how often I have a headache so we could adjust my meds if necessary.  My frequent joke is, “I always have a headache.”  It wasn’t so funny when it turned out to be true.  But a headache after a nap?  That just seems extra mean.

My kids always insist on one of those grocery carts with a little car attached to the front that they can “drive”.  The Bandit doesn’t so much want to drive the thing as hop in and out without opening the door like Bo Duke.  I should get a copy of that first season of The Dukes of Hazzard for him for Christmas, but I fear that he’d never use a door again.

The other evening, Sassy came in from the back yard crying bitterly.  It turns out her father and brother were laughing at her because she’d stepped in dog poop.  You know what I did.  You got it.  I laughed, too.  I’m starting an escrow account for her therapy.

This morning Sassy and the Bandit were arguing.  Sassy said the one thing that she knew would really upset her brother.  “You are stupid.  S T O O P I D,” she spelled.  I had to go and change my pants I laughed so hard.

I was contacted today about my willingness to be a moderator at the Tucson Festival of Books coming up in March.  I wrote about this several months ago.  I was excited then because two of my favorite romance writers will be attending: Julia Quinn and Jennifer Ashely.  Today, I went back over to the site and discovered that LARRY MCMURTRY will also be there.  HOLY CRAP PEOPLE.  If you are unaware of his work, then familiarize yourself with the Pulitzer Prize winning Lonesome Dove.  I have been madly in love with Gus McCrae for many years now.  I have a 1st edition of this book I found years ago.  GOD I hope I meet him.

19 shopping days until Christmas. YIKES

The Ornament Death Count at the Bright Compound: 4    Here’s a riddle for you.  Q. Why does Roscoe only wants to eat the glass ones?             A. Because he’s a moron.

I tried to get the Bandit to completely empty his bladder before bed the other night.  I kept saying, “Is that all?  Anymore in there?”  He kept saying, “Yes,” but there wasn’t any more coming out.  “It’s invisible pee,” he told me with a flourish of his arm. 

Sassy informed us at lunch today that Lays potato chips are best because they have, “a delicate crunch.”  Just so you know.

There, I’ve emptied out my brain.  At least until I post this and 9,000,000 more non sequiturs pop into my head.

This is what I learned from one of my favorite blog sites today:

Researchers have conducted a study of anger in America.  Anger levels range from “slightly angry” to “very angry” to “@#$% you and your @#$%-damn survey!”

Thank goodness, because the Quill Sisters thought we were the only ones.

I hate to say it, but I am so jealous of Flat Sassy.  She most recently went on a cruise with her Grandma.

Here she is in Cozumel.  Obviously, you can tell that since I know you can read or you wouldn’t be visiting my site. 

ANYWHOOO (I said that just for you, Michelle) Cool, huh?

And here she is hanging out with pirates.  Not a gorgeous as my dream pirate, but then again I’m not in the Caribbean either.

Deep sigh.

I waaaaaaannnnnaaaa vacation.

I got a big long crack in my windshield. Much like Ava’s experience, I have absolutely no idea how it got there. We have comprehensive glass coverage on our cars, but I wanted to make sure it was really cracked before I called the insurance company. I wanted the window replaced, not “fixed” with epoxy. You want to know why? It’s so lazy really. The inside of the windshield is all streaky and it’s too hard to clean it well. I figured, what the hell, let them replace it and then I don’t have to clean it. An excellent theory I wish I could instate for the laundry.

So the glass guy came out on Friday last week after I deemed the 18 inch crack was no longer eligible for repair.  Tada!  A new, streak free windshield.

Here’s the bummer: the smell of the glue is so strong that I’m sure I’m getting high from it. If I get pulled over they’re going to arrest me and give me a DWI. It’s too damn cold to open the windows and air it out, so I just keep breathing it in.  It’s been 6 days now, and it is better than it was, but sheesh.

I’m considering selling rides around the block. 

At least it makes the traffic a little more tolerable.  The stop lights are so pretty when they swirl like that.

So, I have a follow up to last night’s post. My Honey and I were talking about my “issue” and he related the following story. When they left a certain store on Monday (and no, he won’t tell me what they bought there. “You’re the effing sleuth,” he told me. “You figure it out.”) they all got in the truck. My Honey turned around to face the back seat and he said to The Bandit,

“Now, Bandit, you can’t tell Momma what we got her. No matter what.”

“Yeah,” Sassy said.

My Honey continued, “No matter what Momma says, you can’t tell her.”

“She’s wily like that,” Sassy confirmed.

“Do you understand, Bandit. You can’t tell Momma.” My Honey pleaded.

“Yeah, cause if you do,” Sassy the Enforcer told him with a menacing glare, “We’ll beat you.”

If that ballet-fashion designer-veterinarian thing doesn’t work out for her, she can always work for the mob.

The Bandit is going to kill me. And unexpectedly, it’s not the way you’ll suspect. Let me give you another little insight into my character.

I love birthdays and Christmas. I mean, I REALLY LOVE them. I endeavor to find the right presents for everyone, and I enjoy watching the recipients open them. But that is not why I love birthdays and Christmas. Not by a long shot, and if I tried to convince you otherwise, the comments section of this blog would blow up. The people that know me well would begin picketing, I’m sure. I LOVE birthdays and Christmas because I really, really, really love getting presents. Big presents. Little presents. Presents in little blue boxes with white ribbon that oh so subtly hint at Tiffany. I have been like this for all of my days, and having just recently turned 40 (gasp wheeze), I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Now here is where I tell you of one of my largest character flaws. It’s big – bigger than no will power and short temper combined. I snoop. There, I’ve said it. I am a hopeless and unrepentant snooper. And, I am deeply skilled. For as long as I can remember, I have been able to find my presents. No matter how stealthily they are hidden. It’s a gift really. If some fool is so naïve as to put a wrapped present under the tree, I will sneak out in the dark of night armed only with the light of the moon and unwrap, ogle, and rewrap said present so well it will be virtually undetectable. I have enormous talent with Scotch tape, and I wholeheartedly endorse the higher end wrapping paper as it handles the rewrapping process much better than the cheaper rolls.

I have experienced some regret, I will admit. Not because I ruined the surprise. PSHAW. No, my regret stems from the sad truth that, in my younger, novice days, I left tracks and used my little brother as the fall guy. I distinctly remember a year when I foolishly left a dining room chair in my parent’s closet. I shake my head at the stupidity and lack of attention to detail that exhibited. I conned him into saying it was him. And even worse than that, I can’t even tell you how many times I began conversations with him like this:

“If you tell me one of my presents, I’ll tell you one of yours. You go first,” I’d tell him.

The poor sap fell for this time and time again. He would tell me something and then I’d follow up with, “Well, I don’t know any of yours, but as soon as I found out, I’ll tell you.” You know I never did.

If I were a believer, I’d go to confession for that.

My Honey won’t play this game. I am both secretly awed and hate him a little bit because of it. He never brings my presents home. He immediately takes them to his warehouse and leaves them there until Christmas Eve, the bastard. I don’t have keys to the warehouse. There isn’t a window that I can shimmy through. Believe me, I’ve cased the joint.

“Tell me what you’re getting me. Just give me a hint,” I’ll cajole. “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

“I don’t know,” is the only answer he will give. He’s like a friggin Sphinx – only if he was the Sphinx he’d at least give me a riddle I could work on for a couple of days to keep me occupied. I don’t know how I’ve remained married to him for nine years – except that he’s absolutely perfect for me.

There are those of you out there that are appalled, I know. You’re thinking some malarkey about “But I enjoy the surprise.” That’s bullshit and you know it. I have possibly missed a very lucrative career as an actress, because I assure you, if you think I was surprised about a present you gave me, think again. I’ll let you people ponder that for a while.

Don’t think that I’m not grateful. I’ve already told you, I love presents, so a big and hearty THANK YOU for each and every one of them.

So why is The Bandit killing me? Because bless his four-year-old heart, the secrecy is killing him. My Honey took the kids to the mall on Monday after he picked them up from school and they bought my Christmas present. From the minute I got home from work, he’s been trying to tell me what they bought. Sassy is going to have a heart attack trying to keep him from telling me. I’ve actually resorted to covering my ears and humming to avoid it.

Last year he sidled up next to me on the couch and whispered in my ear, “I’m not supposed to tell you that we got you a bathrobe, but it’s really soft and fuzzy.” God bless him.

But the fact of the matter is, it’s just not sporting to find out from someone that’s trying to tell you. And I hate to exploit his innocence that way. I hope I’m not maturing.

Farmer Billy didn’t even know the cow could drive a pick-up truck, until he got the postcard from Atlantic City.

“Ran off with Laddie,” it said. “Sorry about the truck.”

Laddie was the dog. Theirs was a love that dared not bark or moo its name.

by Bill
 

Alas, this is not my story.  I wish it was, it’s very funny.

Shoebox.com

We went to the zoo today.  It was that or put up the Christmas tree.  I campaigned heavily for the zoo.  God, I hate that tree.

It’s a windy day and a little brisk out.  It turns out that those are the ideal conditions for the animals.  Everyone of them seemed to be active.  When we first got there, the monkeys were swinging, the polar bear was swimming, the giraffes were stretching their long necks and tongues over the wall to snatch mesquite bean pods from the hands of the delighted people on the other side. 

I was able to translate what I overheard The Bandit saying the other day.  “The cantaloupe has horns,” is what I heard him say.  Turns out the “cantaloupes” live on the prairie with the lions, zebras and rhinoceroses.  Cantaloupe = Antelope.  “Hey, mom, look at all the cantaloupes!” Whew- mystery solved.

I also learned that boys have inherently better tortoise detectors than girls.  Don’t ask.  Just know that it is so.

Also, in a very strange development, I learned that my husband wanders the zoo contemplating wrestling with the animals.  He’s fairly sure he could take the Andean Bear and the Dwarf Caiman.  I think this is very odd, as well as being a strictly masculine behavior.  I sincerely think that a woman would not look at a bear in a zoo enclosure and wonder if she could pin it or not.  I know I don’t.  Unless it was standing in the way of the cupcakes.

But the real excitement came at the lion enclosure.

Our zoo recently obtained a new lioness.  Her name is Kaya and she is magnificent.  Usually, the lions are so comfortable lounging around in the grass that we don’t linger very long at their enclosure.  Today was not one of those days.  This was the first time I’d seen Kaya – the other times we’ve been there she must have elected to stay inside.  You can see the lions from several vantage points, most of them giant windows.  One of these has the feeling that you’re standing in a giant cave.  There is one big wall of windows and a smaller window at the floor to the left that peeks into a cave like recess where the lions sometimes go to nap. 

We were standing next to the wall of windows when the Kala decided that she was a little bored.  She wandered over to the pond and fished out a ball.

 She proceeded to play with this ball around the enclosure, batting at it and then giving chase.  She sent the ball into the side of the male lion, who wasn’t as excited about playing ball as she was, so he got up and they wrestled a bit.

At one point she disappeared from view so Sassy, The Bandit and I knelt down and pressed out faces to the little window into the cave.  She looked right at us and lunged at the window, snarling and growling.  Her face actually hit the window and then she pawed at it.  The three of us screamed and jumped.  It was so awesome! 

We stayed there for a long time.  She paced the length of the big window and thrilled all the people.

This was how close she was with just the window between us. 

At one point I sat down on the concrete and she and I had a staring contest.

It’s just awe inspiring.  I could really feel her watching me and then she would make an almost imperceptible change in position from sitting to ready-to-pounce.  Even through the window, I could feel the increase of adrenaline.

 Later, throughout the park, we could hear the lion roaring periodically.

This was sooooo much better than putting up that stupid tree.

I love Black Friday.  Ava and Isabella think I’m crazy.  I think it’s fun.  Participating in the ritual of Black Friday and all that it entails actually sort of jettisons me into the Christmas spirit.   Conversely, I absolutely despise putting up and taking down the Christmas Tree.  I hate everything about it.  My Honey has done everything possible to make it a less odious task: we have a pre-lit, artificial tree and I have the short people that live in our house to put on the actual ornaments (as long as you’re OK with all of them in a three foot clump.)  Ava loves to put up the tree.  She can come over and put up mine, too, if she wants.

So on Thursday, I studied the ads.  I made notes and folded the pages of the items I wanted to get.  I made a plan of attack that took into account the crowds and the location of each store along with the opening time of each  and the popularity of the targeted items.  My sister-in-law brought my niece and nephew and my mom came along for fun.  Sassy wanted to come, too, but I used the “you wouldn’t wake up” ploy because a lot of my items were on her list.  We picked her up a couple of hours later after she had a conniption fit that I had failed to wake her up.

Everyone met at my house at 4:15 –  in the morning.  Except for Black Friday, the only reasonable excuse for getting up at that hour is to head off for Disneyland.  I have seen 4:15 many times but as I was going to bed – not getting up.  That is almost what happened on Thursday.  My Honey had started suggesting that I head off to bed at 9:00.  Right.  I went to sleep at 1:45 that night.  My head was busy, what can I say?  So I headed off into the murky crowd with 2 1/2 hours of sleep. 

We ended Round 1 at 8:35.  I managed to get a 1/2 hour nap on the couch.  Around 2:00 that afternoon, I snuck out of the house and did another 2 hours.

I was handling things pretty well.  We went out to dinner and everything.  However, things changed when I put Sassy to bed.  She read her book to me and then, when it was my turn to read my book to her, things really started to fall apart.  I kept falling asleep in mid sentence.  Apparently I was injecting dreams into the story.  Poor Sassy kept saying, “What are you talking about?”.  She knows the Barenstain Bears books pretty well so it was apparent when I would drift off course.  It took me 1/2 an hour to read that short little story.

Now here is the really sick thing.  After she fell asleep I got out of her bed and drifted into the office for a second to check on a few things.  Guess what time I actually fell asleep last night.  Come on – take a guess.  12:30.  Seriously.  I have no idea what is wrong with me.