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Last night we were discussing economics because I am obsessed with the Great Depression now. There was some discussion regarding the fact that all the big economists had sons who were now economists. Except Adam Smith. I don’t even know about Adam Smith. And that would be great, great grandchildren anyway. We were talking Friedman.
Then I brought up the splinter in my hand. I was trying to dig it out with a rusty pin needle because why use the $4,000 in medical supplies my husband has in the bathroom when you can take out a sewing kit from the ’70s and have at it. It was then that my husband offered to help.
This, my friends, is a bit of a Catch-22. The man has had secret fantasies of being a doctor that have remained well-hidden. These fantasies would have probably been realized along with his PhD and J.D. if he could get over that pesky fear of blood, bodily fluids, disease and the smell of well, anything. His father joked at the husband’s law school graduation that all that was left was med school. I turned to my husband and told him I would LEAVE him if he ever considered one more second of education. He retaliated by getting a teaching job two days a week. Bastard.
But back to surgery. My husband is a bit between when it comes to empathy and solution-oriented medical attention. Add the recent issue regarding the fact that he is OLD and can’t see anymore, I was leery, to say the least. But he wanted to help and I really should have gotten this piece of glass out of my thumb two days ago because now it is permanently embedded in my thumb bone.
He sat down beside me on the couch and looked at my pin. He was off to find a sterilized stick pin he had purchased for $38 and his handy-dandy magnifying glass with light. Then he grabbed my hand. And pricked my thumb. Twice. Not even remotely near my splinter. I screeched.
D: SORRY!!! The pin wasn’t in my line of sight under the magnifying glass yet.
K: So you decided to do the stab-to-find method?
We started laughing so hard we were crying. He started to poke me again. With tears in his eyes. Because tears in your eyes help a blind man see even BETTER.
In case you are wondering, it went downhill from there. I know. How is that possible? I still have the glass shard in my thumb but now I have a 1/4″ incision as well. We couldn’t find the glass.
We probably should have just given the tweezers to The Boy and had him take it out.
“Failure to send me to Girl Scouts” to the list.
You don’t even want to know how long it took me to start the fire in the wood stove today. I had to start that fire because winter has arrived here. Fall? Who needs fall when you can wake up to 30 degree weather? And since The Husband is running interference with The Baby who wakes up at 6:23 a.m. every morning like clockwork, he apparently has no time to build a proper fire before he leaves for work. I was still recovering from getting up 9 times to put The Boy back in his bed in the middle of the night.
I called Sweet Home Alabama to complain about my lack of Scout skills. She mentioned that she had been in the Girl Scouts. Apparently I have been led astray about ways my parents have overtly failed me in life. SHA doesn’t know how to start a fire. She doesn’t even know her knots. WTH?? What are they doing in Girl Scouts if they aren’t teaching them survival skills and how to light crap on fire? Either way, I will now blame my parents for failing to sign me up for the Boy Scouts. HOW DARE THEY???? Clearly they did not love me because if they had, they would have taken the Boy Scouts to the Supreme Court to get me admitted.
Or they could have just taught me to start a fire. My mother? Queen Firestarter. I still remember my mother out in the snow, chopping firewood when she was 7 months pregnant. Of course, I’m 5 months pregnant and I have contractions if I climb stairs too quickly. I am clearly not my mother’s daughter. That being said, would I be in a rush to teach MY offspring to start a fire? Probably not. Who am I kidding? Not just “no” but “hell, no.”
So I guess I will let her off the hook. The odds are pretty good that she probably DID try to teach me to build a fire but I was ignoring her as any good daughter does. Sorry, Mom.
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I have to get this post in quickly because I go to the doctor tomorrow and then I’ll have to be writing a post about lying about my weight. Sheesh. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not too worried about my weight because, I mean, Angelina Jolie gained 50 pounds and she dropped it right away.
RIGHT, she gained 50 pounds. People, let’s just say I have seen 180 pounds during pregnancy and Ms. Jolie was never 180.
And now. Drumroll please for the new vice.
Texas Hold ‘Em on the IPhone. Seriously, people. What the hell? My husband downloaded it onto my phone through some scam that only involved him paying once for it to go on both our phones. Now I find myself gambling at 2 in the morning. At least it is fake money. I know people playing poker at 2 a.m. with real money that they don’t have. Well, I guess they have the money. It’s just that the mortgage company thought they were entitled to it first.
OK, it was 3 a.m. Who the hell hung this lightbulb over my head?
If it makes you feel better, I didn’t play during church today. I thought about it. Believe you me, I thought about it.
Did I mention we are having another boy? This throws a wrench into my husband’s desire to name a child Sacagawea. It appears that the Lewis and Clark Expedition will have to end right here at Chateau Cookie. Whatever we decide to name #3, our goal is to make it as close to Ethan and Nathan as possible as to annoy those people who feel names of subsequent children should be different from the preceding children. Nethan, anyone?
Either way, #3 will have some form of a historic middle name. How many kids can say, “my parents picked my name from wikipedia’s american explorers? Seriously.
I pulled one over on the kids and went downstairs to get work done when they were busy in this elaborate game involving a box.
I wasn’t too concerned because they were pushing each other around in this box on the kitchen floor. It sounded like a train was moving overhead. It was only when I heard the train moving near the top of the stairs that I started to wonder how it was all going to go down.
Eat: NATE. You know what we should do?
Eat: Do you want to ride down the stairs in the box. It would be so much fun.
Down the stairs in the box. Ignoring the hardwood floor covering the concrete floor. And the weight-bearing pole in the path. How fast do you think they could get moving by the end of the steps? Under the assumption that the box would make it in the upright position to the bottom of the stairs.
Sometime I fear for that second born.
Eat: You don’t want to go down the stairs? It will be really, REALLY fun.
With that I heard someone come flying down the stairs in a box, laughing maniacally. I jumped up to find Eat climbing out of the box unscathed at the bottom of the stairs. I looked up at the top of the stairs to see his brother looking on in wonder.
Eat: Nate. That was SO much fun. Do you want to try it?
It’s the little things for which we are thankful as mothers. Last time I checked, there is no two-fer deal at the ER.
My husband would be shocked. If he read this blog.
So I’m against facebook on principle since the only thing missing from the personal information under your photograph is your social security number. Don’t start leaving me comments about how you can hide anything you want. I know you can. I’m referring to the people (mostly who are related to me) that have their street address and phone number posted on facebook. You are like one step away from having your identity stolen, you know? The only thing that makes me feel better is the fact that there is no way anyone is going to be able to qualify for credit with my information so I figured what the hell.
Now facebook has sucked me in. It’s ugly. It’s ugly because if you have spent the better part of your adult life employed as a professional snoop, facebook is a gold mine surrounded by land mines. The thing is, you have to be someone’s friend to see their life. But sometimes, you don’t want to be their friend. You just want to know their business. Really bad. So even though you didn’t even have one conversation in high school because that person was an ass, you decide to friend them on facebook to see if their assedness has caught up with them. But then you find they are only a friend adder on their facebook but now they get to see YOUR facebook profile that has you describing your husband’s new facial hair as Unibomberesque. Fair trade of information? I think not.
So who’s on YOUR facebook friend page? And are you a friend adder/loser?