The Bandit was over at my sister-in-laws this weekend.  His daddy and his uncle were shoveling gravel, so he and his aunt played a little croquet in the backyard.

“Do you want to take this croquet set home with you?” she asked him.  (Ultimately I put the kibosh on that plan – Roscoe will just eat it.)

“Where did you get it,” Bandit asked her.

“I borrowed it from Grandma and never gave it back.”

The Bandit stopped and looked at her with his mouth hanging open.  “You stole it?”

“No, I didn’t steal it.  I borrowed it from Grandma for a really long time and never gave it back.”

The Bandit gave her an accusatory look and shook his head.  “You stole it.”

My Honey and I were standing outside the Sprint store last night, girding our loins and planning our strategy.  Based on his feral behavior during the previous conversations that we had with the sales department, the technical department and (of all things) the customer service department, I told My Honey that I’d do the talking.  At least until I get that look in my eye and things begin to get dangerous.  He responded, “Alright, you tap me in when you’re ready.” 

Armed with the visual of him standing on the outside of the ring, jumping up and down on the ropes and screaming encouragement, we charged ahead.  In my mind, I was dressed as one of those super muscular, scary looking wrestler chicks with a bleached blond weave and four inch boots and a nasty disposition.  My Honey was wearing that weird spandex and a crazy look in his eye. 

We brought along the kids because we were going to grab dinner afterwards.  Besides, I figured it they gave us any trouble, The Bandit could use his much practiced “Poke-‘Em-in-the-Armpit” move with his wooden sword.  It’s really a shame that there’s no hot lava to throw people into anymore.  I figured the worst Sassy could do was whine and glare at them, but if that’s what they needed to experience before they were going to satisfy me, then I had no compunction whatsoever is unleashing our most powerful weapons.

Much to my surprise and delight, Andrew the Wonder Clerk came to our rescue.  He immediately understood our problems, and while he couldn’t fix them, he advised us to call Sprint Customer Care while we were there.  It’s a damn good thing, too, because I’m telling you that if I’d been at home alone and was spoken to by the unbelievably bitter and bitchy clerk, Angela, in the Retention Department, I would have gone completely apeshit.  I swear it’s true.  Even the sainted Andrew got upset when I turned the phone over to him.  Finally her boss came on the phone and Roger the Great and Saint Andrew fixed our problems.  I promised I would give them the highest marks if I was asked to take a survey.  I also promised that I would add another entry into the blog with the end result.

I really dislike being mean and hateful, and the words that I’m about to type right now are verging on evil knowing what I know about the job market.  But, Angela needs to be fired.  Sprint – if you’re reading, Saint Andrew and Roger the Great were fantastic and should be bonused handsomely.  Angela needs to be axed – toot sweet.

I called my cell phone carrier (that rhymes with print is spelled with an S and is pronounced Sprint) this week because I was having technical trouble with my Moto Q.  As I was speaking to the fast talking technical support person, I was conned into getting a whole new phone.  This was not an easy task since I wasn’t going to pay any money.  No money.  Zero money.  My old phone was nice, but who doesn’t love a new gadget that makes you feel like a moron? 

So part of the deal was that I bought one Blackberry Curve and I got one free.  Cool! I could give one to My Honey.  His phone was a little old, and besides, if I get the joy of feeling like a moron with a new phone, he should certainly get to participate, too. 

It was with great glee that we ripped open the box when it arrived on our doorstep this afternoon.  And then we were rapidly disappointed.  The whole thing has been a nightmare – a very confusing nightmare.  I spoke with approximately 185 Sprint employees today – some were very calming and extraordinarily helpful, some made me want to scream obscenities and make threats.  I was disconnected no less than three times, so I got the joy of completely starting over each time.  We should all be impressed that My Honey isn’t going down to the county jail to bail me out.

My normally relatively calm Honey, quite literally, turned into a bear.  I’m a writer.  I know what literally means.  I’m telling you, he fell on the floor, started growing fangs and extra hair, and snarled into the phone at the “help” people.  I took back the phone, for a number of reasons the largest being that bears don’t have thumbs, and resumed the conversation. 

My phone works, my Honey’s does not.  I feel really badly, too, because I may kid about the moron part, but there is so much joy to be found by playing with a new gadget.  I get to do that while My Honey pouts.

Our problems still aren’t completely solved, even at this point.  I have hope.  We have to continue our phone odyssey at the Sprint store.  I really hope that things go well.  Because if they don’t,  THAT’S when I’m going to have my opportunity for solitary confinement.

My Honey and I have decided that when we get grandchildren, we’re going to go over to their house every night just before bedtime and get them all sugared up.

“I’m gonna carry candy in my pockets all the time,” he told me.

“Candy, hell,” I said.  “I’m just gonna sneak them spoons full of pure sugar.”

My Honey laughed.  He can just picture me feeding them sugar cubes like horses.

“Who’s your favorite Grandma?  That’s right.  Here you go.  It’s a little cube of love, baby.”

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.