We should have built an ark. We should have built an ark. Have I mentioned that we should have built an ark? Or at least a boat? Wait, we have that boat. But I think it leaks. The Husband swears it doesn’t.
With temperatures hovering at 34 degrees, it won’t stop raining. As I speak, the children are mesmorized by Steve Songs singing that “Rain is falling down, falling down, falling down” song and frankly, as much as I love Mr. Steve, I want to throw a boot at the television. I can tolerate that 50% of the country had a white Christmas while we did not, but the rain has got to stop. The only way daily rain is tolerable is if it was 80, I was illicitly lying on a beach chair at an all-inclusive in Aruba and I was carefully calculating the number of SECONDS it would take for that tiny rain cloud to pass over my body and move on as the sun shone brightly. Kinda like those water spritzers they have at the pools in Vegas. But all natural. On the perfect day it would be exactly 120 seconds. Just enough time to rinse the salt water off your body but not long enough to get your towel too wet.
Don’t ask how I know these complicated equations. I just do.
I don’t know how you people in the Pacific Northwest do it. Oh, that’s right. You have SNOW now. Are we getting your rain?
The roof is leaking. At least it’s in the bathroom. On the bright side, you are already wet from your shower. And my basement full of thousands of shirts? Dry as a bone. See, it’s not all doom and gloom over here. Except that part where The Boy threw up the second we walked into the barber shop last night. He had complained about wanting to throw up but I thought he was just faking. What a horrible mother. We were out to dinner and his father said, “give him that cup in case he wants to throw up” and I was all, “if I give him my sprite cup then I can’t refill it.”
Thirty minutes later I was cleaning up puke at the barber’s. That’ll teach me. I also was carrying a plastic bag for him to throw up in but in good pregnancy form, held it in my hand as he vomited 4 times. You think the thought would have crossed my mind to open it up and, I don’t know, stick it under his mouth? Nah. The barbers thanked me profusely for cleaning up because apparently the last horrible mother who didn’t believe her child was going to throw up was in such denial that she didn’t believe he threw up even as they walked through it to the door.
It felt slightly like watching a dog throw up. You stare oddly at the vomit, wondering where all that stuff came from because none of it looks remotely like Kibble. This time it was the shell pasta that threw me off. We haven’t had pasta in a week. I’m pretty sure we don’t have any leftovers in the fridge. Who knows? He was asleep at 7 and woke up looking fresh and frisky this morning. We’ll see what happens.
I had to get up at 11:40 last night because I forgot my credit card bill was due. In this economy, I could have awakened today to a 78% interest rate and a $200 late fee. Too bad we couldn’t have just gotten that American Express bailout directly attributed to my card. That would have been nice. Bastards.
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