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"We gotta fix my machine, Dad."
Nov. 21st, 2009 08:22 amIt's a lot of fun to listen to Scott and the Zweeble playing together.
So Monday night, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dealio and I went to see Stephen King at the Van Wezel in Sarasota. He and his wife have a house out on one or the other of the keys up there, so I'm sure it was convenient. :)
He has recently started writing stuff set in Florida. The first thing I remember is a story from (I believe) Everything's Eventual where the road to Hell is the main road across Sanibel and Captiva islands, which are not so far from us, and having driven that road a few times trying to find an address ... well, it made me smile. Duma Key was pretty good in terms of its Florida stuff--Dan's Fan City got a shout out--though, as he admits, a mostly-wild barrier island in this area is pure literary license.
(However, I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out how you can drive from Sarasota to anywhere in Charlotte County without getting on 41 or 75, as a character in a story from Just After Sunset does. I've been wracking my parents' brains, too. We're not sure it's possible.)
It's definitely a kick to read a Stephen King novel set in your state. And more of a kick when he's writing about the area, more or less, where you grew up. It'd be a total fangirl freakoput had he decided to get a house out on Boca rather than Casey Key or wherever, but I'll make do. :)
Anyway, the whole thing was pretty cool. I thought it was a reading, but it was one of those "conversation with" things. That was okay; I can listen to writers talking about how they wrote their books forever. He's obviously done these before, so that was good. The lady who interviewed him was a local newspaper person, and I thought she asked some really interesting questions. Her tone, which was, I think, supposed to be that professional interviewer tone of "we're basically total strangers but we'll pretend to be intimate friends" wasn't at the Oprah or Barbara Walters level, and mostly came across as kind of smug and slightly stiff. But she knew enough to just let Stephen King be Stephen King, and to let the man talk.
The best part, though, was talking about books with Scott all the way home.
Here's the thing about being parents: you get slightly disconnected. He's working all day, I'm working in the evenings a lot after the boy's in bed, and then before the boy is in bed ... well, the boy is not in bed, he's running around being the boy. We spend two and a half hours getting dinner ready, attempting to make him eat, bathing him, pajama-ing him, playing with him, updating the grandparents via phone as to his day, putting him to bed ... and then I have all my stuff to do, and Scott heads to bed around 10:30.
So during the week, you sort of ... drift. Not very far, we're not talking some mainstream-novel domestic drama thing where the Zweeble's in college and we find we're two different people, and the quirky dog walker and the philosophy-quoting lawn guy are starting to look really intriguing. No, it's just that you haven't had a chance to really sit down and talk about anything other than the practical stuff, and you're a trifle off-kilter.
On the weekends, then, after the Zweeb's in bed, we get to reconnect and hang out. And it's even nicer, in some ways, when we do it now because I appreciate it more.
So while seeing the author I've liked since I was 12** was pretty cool, getting to spend time with my husband debating whether or not he should try Vonnegut again and what, exactly, does "genius" translate to in art, and wow, Stephen King has some ... interesting ... fans--that made the whole thing worth the money. :)
**what the hell were my parents thinking, letting me read Carrie in 6th grade?! Then again, considering 6th grade girls, it was a bit like a handbook ... none of the snotty girls I was in school with were quite as imaginative as the snotty girls in Carrie, though.
dealio and I went to see Stephen King at the Van Wezel in Sarasota. He and his wife have a house out on one or the other of the keys up there, so I'm sure it was convenient. :)He has recently started writing stuff set in Florida. The first thing I remember is a story from (I believe) Everything's Eventual where the road to Hell is the main road across Sanibel and Captiva islands, which are not so far from us, and having driven that road a few times trying to find an address ... well, it made me smile. Duma Key was pretty good in terms of its Florida stuff--Dan's Fan City got a shout out--though, as he admits, a mostly-wild barrier island in this area is pure literary license.
(However, I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out how you can drive from Sarasota to anywhere in Charlotte County without getting on 41 or 75, as a character in a story from Just After Sunset does. I've been wracking my parents' brains, too. We're not sure it's possible.)
It's definitely a kick to read a Stephen King novel set in your state. And more of a kick when he's writing about the area, more or less, where you grew up. It'd be a total fangirl freakoput had he decided to get a house out on Boca rather than Casey Key or wherever, but I'll make do. :)
Anyway, the whole thing was pretty cool. I thought it was a reading, but it was one of those "conversation with" things. That was okay; I can listen to writers talking about how they wrote their books forever. He's obviously done these before, so that was good. The lady who interviewed him was a local newspaper person, and I thought she asked some really interesting questions. Her tone, which was, I think, supposed to be that professional interviewer tone of "we're basically total strangers but we'll pretend to be intimate friends" wasn't at the Oprah or Barbara Walters level, and mostly came across as kind of smug and slightly stiff. But she knew enough to just let Stephen King be Stephen King, and to let the man talk.
The best part, though, was talking about books with Scott all the way home.
Here's the thing about being parents: you get slightly disconnected. He's working all day, I'm working in the evenings a lot after the boy's in bed, and then before the boy is in bed ... well, the boy is not in bed, he's running around being the boy. We spend two and a half hours getting dinner ready, attempting to make him eat, bathing him, pajama-ing him, playing with him, updating the grandparents via phone as to his day, putting him to bed ... and then I have all my stuff to do, and Scott heads to bed around 10:30.
So during the week, you sort of ... drift. Not very far, we're not talking some mainstream-novel domestic drama thing where the Zweeble's in college and we find we're two different people, and the quirky dog walker and the philosophy-quoting lawn guy are starting to look really intriguing. No, it's just that you haven't had a chance to really sit down and talk about anything other than the practical stuff, and you're a trifle off-kilter.
On the weekends, then, after the Zweeb's in bed, we get to reconnect and hang out. And it's even nicer, in some ways, when we do it now because I appreciate it more.
So while seeing the author I've liked since I was 12** was pretty cool, getting to spend time with my husband debating whether or not he should try Vonnegut again and what, exactly, does "genius" translate to in art, and wow, Stephen King has some ... interesting ... fans--that made the whole thing worth the money. :)
**what the hell were my parents thinking, letting me read Carrie in 6th grade?! Then again, considering 6th grade girls, it was a bit like a handbook ... none of the snotty girls I was in school with were quite as imaginative as the snotty girls in Carrie, though.
so lemme tell you about my day.
Oct. 16th, 2009 09:25 pmBut first, a snippet of conversation:
Scott: Okay, there's a German guy covering Eminem songs in Klingon. Could he be any more nerdy?
Laura: (thinks) If he covered them in Elvish.
Scott: Okay, yes.
The Zweeble spent Monday through Thursday with his grandparents. My mother is on vacation and my husband, god bless him, felt that it would do me some good to have time completely to myself. And it did. Because I think today would have killed me had I not had a good three and a half days of not-being-Mommy. As it is, I'm just a bit tired.
Okay, so. This morning I called to see if the pediatrician is doing flu shots yet. Last year you had to call every day, and then when they had them in they'd schedule you for later in the day. Up until today, that was what they were doing this year, too. But today they said they're doing clinics on Saturdays, and scheduled Z. for Halloween morning. Yay on that, both sincerely (thank god, finally got the flu shot appointment) and sarcastically (Halloween? Really?).
So I sit down later at the laptop to put this and some other appointments into iCal, and Mr. Z. wanders over to the dining room table to watch. He climbs into his chair and starts looking at stuff on the table. One item is a pencil--he looks it over, puts one end in his mouth, and bites the eraser off. Then he takes the eraser out of his mouth, looks at it, and puts it aside. This is while I am telling him not to do that and taking the pencil away. Effective parenting, yes indeed.
He draws for a while, gets bored, heads to the living room. And about three minutes later he looks over the back of the couch at me and says, a bit worried, "Mommy, I put the eraser up my nose."
I get up, walk over, look in his nose and confirm. Yes, that's an eraser. Yes, it is in his nose. Way far up in his nose. I didn't know his fingers were that long. No, there is no way I can get that out by myself.
(And why the hell am I remembering that episode of ER where they get the rubber ball out of the kid's windpipe with a needle? This is not the same thing. Get thee behind me, ER, you panic-attack-inducing demon! Thank god I don't watch House on a regular basis; I'm sure there's some exotic illness that's only carried on erasers.)
So I call the doctor's office, again. They have an appointment in an hour. I take it. Is there anything I ought to do in the meantime? No idea--all the nurses are on lunch.
Most of me is calm. Not a big deal. He can breathe. And it can't be that serious because I can't find anything about "foriegn objects in nose" in the baby book. But I call my mother, and after she reassures me I demand that she ask my grandmother if I ought to panic, because Grandma had four kids and I'm willing to bet one of them (probably my uncle) stuffed something up his or her nose at some point.
Grandma tells me not to panic. It was, in fact, either my mother or my aunt who stuffed a bean up her nose.
I call Scott, who listens very seriously before he finally gives in and laughs.
Now it's time to get ready for the doctor's office. The Zweeb hears he's going to the doctor's and says, "But I'm not sick!"
"No, but you have an eraser up your nose and it needs to come out."
"But I'm not sick, Mommy! I don't wanna go to the doctor's office!" This continues out the door and into the car and down the road. At the halfway point it morphs into something about the eraser making him sick, but he still doesn't want to go to the doctor's office.
"I'll be there the whole time," I say. "Plus there's the fish tank--you can see the fish, remember?"
"Nooo ... ?"
"Yeah, fish and snails in the tank," I say. I specifically do not mention the little plastic slide in the waiting room, because I am hoping I can keep him off it--I have vague visions of mashed-up eraser in the sinuses after the Zweeb has taken a header off the thing.
"I don't wanna go, Mommy."
We have now turned onto the next to the last road before the doctor's office. We're about five minutes away, if that.
From the back seat, I hear a series of sneezes. I glance in the rearview mirror. There is something pink on the Zweeble's upper lip.
"What's on your face?" I ask.
Z. reaches up, looks. "The eraser! I sneezed it out, Mommy!"
"Hand it over!" I reach back without looking and he places it in my hand.
"I'm not sick anymore!" he crows.
I pull into a vacant lot and examine the eraser, which looks as intact as something that was bitten off a pencil can look. Then I head to the back seat and re-check the nose. All clear.
Into the front again, where I call the office and cancel the appointment. Then we turn around for home.
"Where are you taking me, Mommy?"
"We're going home--the eraser came out, you don't need to see the doctor now."
Pause. Then, "NO! I WANT TO SEE THE FISHIES! I WANT TO SLIDE ON THE GREEN AND RED SLIDE! I DON'T WANNA GO HOME!"
Earlier in the day, the Zweeble fell off his step-stool and landed on his face on the kitchen floor. I get him onto the couch, find out where it hurts (chin), kiss it, and get him some milk and a wash cloth for it. He proceeds to tell me that an orange monster lives under his step-stool, and the monster made him fall down. Could I take care of that monster, please?
I agree to, since I have been taking care of monsters for a while now--apparently the house is infested with various monsters, some friendly, some not--and they all know the house rules. I have a zero tolerance policy for scaring or hurting the Zweeble; monsters get booted immediately for these infractions.
We're distracted, though, and don't get to the orange monster right away. There's a trip to the store (monsters on the signs there, selling Halloween candy--suddenly I am told, "I don't belong to you, Mommy, I belong to the pink monster." "Can I be the pink monster, then?" "Yeah, okay."), lunch, toys, house cleaning.
When we get home from the almost-doctor's appointment, Z. reminds me to get the monster, please. So I reach under and grab the thing, toss it out the door.
I imagine that these monsters are about the size of a throw pillow. They're all shaggy and furry, shaped a lot like that red mosnter that Bugs Bunny gives a manicure to ("Monsters are the most innnteresting people ..."), and they kick and squirm a lot as I haul them to the door. All I tend to get from the boy is color and number of eyes, so I have to fill in the blanks.
There was also his conviction that "So What" by Pink is actually by the Doodlebops, his bouncy walk when we played Follow the Leader, and his naptime nightmare that concluded with him saying, in his sleep, "No, I want fresh milk, fresh!"
And that was my day.
Scott: Okay, there's a German guy covering Eminem songs in Klingon. Could he be any more nerdy?
Laura: (thinks) If he covered them in Elvish.
Scott: Okay, yes.
The Zweeble spent Monday through Thursday with his grandparents. My mother is on vacation and my husband, god bless him, felt that it would do me some good to have time completely to myself. And it did. Because I think today would have killed me had I not had a good three and a half days of not-being-Mommy. As it is, I'm just a bit tired.
Okay, so. This morning I called to see if the pediatrician is doing flu shots yet. Last year you had to call every day, and then when they had them in they'd schedule you for later in the day. Up until today, that was what they were doing this year, too. But today they said they're doing clinics on Saturdays, and scheduled Z. for Halloween morning. Yay on that, both sincerely (thank god, finally got the flu shot appointment) and sarcastically (Halloween? Really?).
So I sit down later at the laptop to put this and some other appointments into iCal, and Mr. Z. wanders over to the dining room table to watch. He climbs into his chair and starts looking at stuff on the table. One item is a pencil--he looks it over, puts one end in his mouth, and bites the eraser off. Then he takes the eraser out of his mouth, looks at it, and puts it aside. This is while I am telling him not to do that and taking the pencil away. Effective parenting, yes indeed.
He draws for a while, gets bored, heads to the living room. And about three minutes later he looks over the back of the couch at me and says, a bit worried, "Mommy, I put the eraser up my nose."
I get up, walk over, look in his nose and confirm. Yes, that's an eraser. Yes, it is in his nose. Way far up in his nose. I didn't know his fingers were that long. No, there is no way I can get that out by myself.
(And why the hell am I remembering that episode of ER where they get the rubber ball out of the kid's windpipe with a needle? This is not the same thing. Get thee behind me, ER, you panic-attack-inducing demon! Thank god I don't watch House on a regular basis; I'm sure there's some exotic illness that's only carried on erasers.)
So I call the doctor's office, again. They have an appointment in an hour. I take it. Is there anything I ought to do in the meantime? No idea--all the nurses are on lunch.
Most of me is calm. Not a big deal. He can breathe. And it can't be that serious because I can't find anything about "foriegn objects in nose" in the baby book. But I call my mother, and after she reassures me I demand that she ask my grandmother if I ought to panic, because Grandma had four kids and I'm willing to bet one of them (probably my uncle) stuffed something up his or her nose at some point.
Grandma tells me not to panic. It was, in fact, either my mother or my aunt who stuffed a bean up her nose.
I call Scott, who listens very seriously before he finally gives in and laughs.
Now it's time to get ready for the doctor's office. The Zweeb hears he's going to the doctor's and says, "But I'm not sick!"
"No, but you have an eraser up your nose and it needs to come out."
"But I'm not sick, Mommy! I don't wanna go to the doctor's office!" This continues out the door and into the car and down the road. At the halfway point it morphs into something about the eraser making him sick, but he still doesn't want to go to the doctor's office.
"I'll be there the whole time," I say. "Plus there's the fish tank--you can see the fish, remember?"
"Nooo ... ?"
"Yeah, fish and snails in the tank," I say. I specifically do not mention the little plastic slide in the waiting room, because I am hoping I can keep him off it--I have vague visions of mashed-up eraser in the sinuses after the Zweeb has taken a header off the thing.
"I don't wanna go, Mommy."
We have now turned onto the next to the last road before the doctor's office. We're about five minutes away, if that.
From the back seat, I hear a series of sneezes. I glance in the rearview mirror. There is something pink on the Zweeble's upper lip.
"What's on your face?" I ask.
Z. reaches up, looks. "The eraser! I sneezed it out, Mommy!"
"Hand it over!" I reach back without looking and he places it in my hand.
"I'm not sick anymore!" he crows.
I pull into a vacant lot and examine the eraser, which looks as intact as something that was bitten off a pencil can look. Then I head to the back seat and re-check the nose. All clear.
Into the front again, where I call the office and cancel the appointment. Then we turn around for home.
"Where are you taking me, Mommy?"
"We're going home--the eraser came out, you don't need to see the doctor now."
Pause. Then, "NO! I WANT TO SEE THE FISHIES! I WANT TO SLIDE ON THE GREEN AND RED SLIDE! I DON'T WANNA GO HOME!"
Earlier in the day, the Zweeble fell off his step-stool and landed on his face on the kitchen floor. I get him onto the couch, find out where it hurts (chin), kiss it, and get him some milk and a wash cloth for it. He proceeds to tell me that an orange monster lives under his step-stool, and the monster made him fall down. Could I take care of that monster, please?
I agree to, since I have been taking care of monsters for a while now--apparently the house is infested with various monsters, some friendly, some not--and they all know the house rules. I have a zero tolerance policy for scaring or hurting the Zweeble; monsters get booted immediately for these infractions.
We're distracted, though, and don't get to the orange monster right away. There's a trip to the store (monsters on the signs there, selling Halloween candy--suddenly I am told, "I don't belong to you, Mommy, I belong to the pink monster." "Can I be the pink monster, then?" "Yeah, okay."), lunch, toys, house cleaning.
When we get home from the almost-doctor's appointment, Z. reminds me to get the monster, please. So I reach under and grab the thing, toss it out the door.
I imagine that these monsters are about the size of a throw pillow. They're all shaggy and furry, shaped a lot like that red mosnter that Bugs Bunny gives a manicure to ("Monsters are the most innnteresting people ..."), and they kick and squirm a lot as I haul them to the door. All I tend to get from the boy is color and number of eyes, so I have to fill in the blanks.
There was also his conviction that "So What" by Pink is actually by the Doodlebops, his bouncy walk when we played Follow the Leader, and his naptime nightmare that concluded with him saying, in his sleep, "No, I want fresh milk, fresh!"
And that was my day.
I went to the store and forgot that you need buttermilk for lemon ginger muffins, so I won't be making those until tonight.
Zweeble wanted blueberry muffins, so I got a mix ... And he added on red cinnamon sprinkles. I was a bit concerned, but in the end they didn't add much besides color.
I haven't managed to walk again trhis week, which I'm disappointed about. It's one thing to stay philosophical about something you don't manage to do but didn't really want to do in the first place--it's harder to stay philosophical when you wanted to do it and didn't manage it.
It's only noon, though. And dinner is cooking, the boyo ate most of an apple and 1 and a half muffins, and the house is clean. Well, if I ignore the living room.
My husband has been bagging comics for two weeks (in between making Magic decks), so my office is looking better and better, too.
I could really use a nap, though. Yawn.
Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
Zweeble wanted blueberry muffins, so I got a mix ... And he added on red cinnamon sprinkles. I was a bit concerned, but in the end they didn't add much besides color.
I haven't managed to walk again trhis week, which I'm disappointed about. It's one thing to stay philosophical about something you don't manage to do but didn't really want to do in the first place--it's harder to stay philosophical when you wanted to do it and didn't manage it.
It's only noon, though. And dinner is cooking, the boyo ate most of an apple and 1 and a half muffins, and the house is clean. Well, if I ignore the living room.
My husband has been bagging comics for two weeks (in between making Magic decks), so my office is looking better and better, too.
I could really use a nap, though. Yawn.
Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com
I have a constant playlist on the family iPod for those rare moments when the Zweeble falls asleep in the car and I can turn on something other than "We Will Rock You" or "A Peanut Sat on a Railroad Track" ("Gitchee Gitchee Goo" is actually on my playlist, too, just fyi). I re-vamp it every so often, trade off songs, delete others, put stuff on it Scott's downloaded and I haven't heard yet. I did that recently, when we moved to the new computer, and yesterday I was listening to it ...
I have a lot of villains on this playlist. Four or five Sweeney Todd songs, the songs featuring the Rake and the Queen from Hazards of Love, two songs from Dr. Horrible, songs featuring bad guys from The Karate Kid and Star Wars, a couple of "the government is out to get you" songs, a prison song, a couple of "god will get you if you don't shape up" songs, and two songs about mean kids (well, one of them is an REM song that always makes me think of the mean little kids in a Ray Bradbury story, but still).
The rest of it is about 75% amoral and/or mentally ill people, 10% ticked-off people, 5% ill-used people, and 5% happy and well-adjusted people.
I am not sure where my new song about scurvy fits into this, but I think it's probably covered.**
**proof my husband loves me: he bought an entire album of Spongebob songs so that I could have "We've Got Scurvy" by Pink. I didn't even know there was a song about scurvy, let alone one done by Pink.
I have a lot of villains on this playlist. Four or five Sweeney Todd songs, the songs featuring the Rake and the Queen from Hazards of Love, two songs from Dr. Horrible, songs featuring bad guys from The Karate Kid and Star Wars, a couple of "the government is out to get you" songs, a prison song, a couple of "god will get you if you don't shape up" songs, and two songs about mean kids (well, one of them is an REM song that always makes me think of the mean little kids in a Ray Bradbury story, but still).
The rest of it is about 75% amoral and/or mentally ill people, 10% ticked-off people, 5% ill-used people, and 5% happy and well-adjusted people.
I am not sure where my new song about scurvy fits into this, but I think it's probably covered.**
**proof my husband loves me: he bought an entire album of Spongebob songs so that I could have "We've Got Scurvy" by Pink. I didn't even know there was a song about scurvy, let alone one done by Pink.
So my father, in a move I think everyone who's met him will agree is entirely characteristic, is on his way to North Carolina for two weeks of motorcycling. I plan to text him later and tell him Happy Father's Day.
I texted him a week or so ago to tell him that I was telling the Zweeble stories that Dad told me when I was a kid. This was cool in that generational way, but also because I don't think he'd realized he could text on his phone. So this week when I sent out a photo of the Zweeble, he texted me back to say how much he liked it.
Yes, my 70-year-old father has discovered texting and Wikipedia. We should all tremble with fear. God help us if he figures out Twitter.**
My father ... well, my dad and I are a lot alike, and also very different. I wouldn't trade him for anyone else. He cracks me up and exasperates me, and I find myself doing things as a parent that he did: silly stories, goofy voices, expeditions into the world. I hope that I teach my son things as well as my father taught me.
And I realized the other day--when my mother was my age, she had a 16-year-old. But when my father was my age, he had ... a two-year-old.
**pshaw. Like Dad could keep to 140 characters.
I have been only peripherally aware of Father's Day. I'll do something for Scott for next week. He doesn't care one way or the other, but I do.
It's funny--I thought Scott would be a good dad, and he is, in many ways, exactly the sort of father I expected him to be. But he's a lot stricter than I would have ever imagined. (And I'm more of a hippy than I'd have thought, but that's another story.)
When the Zweeble sees Daddy's car out the window, he stops what he's doing, turns to me, and says, "My Daddy!" in this voice of pure delight. Then he does a little happy-squirm dance and heads for the door.
He talks about Daddy during the day, "calls" him on the phone, and wanted nothing to do with me yesterday. Yesterday, he was Daddy's boy.
Happy Father's day,dealio. Quit rolling your eyes; you're a good dad.
I texted him a week or so ago to tell him that I was telling the Zweeble stories that Dad told me when I was a kid. This was cool in that generational way, but also because I don't think he'd realized he could text on his phone. So this week when I sent out a photo of the Zweeble, he texted me back to say how much he liked it.
Yes, my 70-year-old father has discovered texting and Wikipedia. We should all tremble with fear. God help us if he figures out Twitter.**
My father ... well, my dad and I are a lot alike, and also very different. I wouldn't trade him for anyone else. He cracks me up and exasperates me, and I find myself doing things as a parent that he did: silly stories, goofy voices, expeditions into the world. I hope that I teach my son things as well as my father taught me.
And I realized the other day--when my mother was my age, she had a 16-year-old. But when my father was my age, he had ... a two-year-old.
**pshaw. Like Dad could keep to 140 characters.
I have been only peripherally aware of Father's Day. I'll do something for Scott for next week. He doesn't care one way or the other, but I do.
It's funny--I thought Scott would be a good dad, and he is, in many ways, exactly the sort of father I expected him to be. But he's a lot stricter than I would have ever imagined. (And I'm more of a hippy than I'd have thought, but that's another story.)
When the Zweeble sees Daddy's car out the window, he stops what he's doing, turns to me, and says, "My Daddy!" in this voice of pure delight. Then he does a little happy-squirm dance and heads for the door.
He talks about Daddy during the day, "calls" him on the phone, and wanted nothing to do with me yesterday. Yesterday, he was Daddy's boy.
Happy Father's day,
dealio. Quit rolling your eyes; you're a good dad.Park! and the Cutting Board Saga
May. 30th, 2009 09:01 pmThis is the first weekend in months that I haven't had something work-related to do, and it feels a little weird.
Today we went to the super-cool park and rode the mini-train, rented a "surrey" bike, played in the water feature, and hit both playgrounds. It was fun! Nothing incredibly adorable to report, aside from my usual enjoyment of watching my son and my husband doing stuff together--Scott taught the Zweeb today that if he wore his baseball hat and stuck his head under the waterfall thing, the water wouldn't get into his eyes as much. So Z. kept his hat on, and hopefully this time next week we won't have freaky scalp-peeling.
Then we came home and tried to get our very tired boy to continue the nap he began in the car. It didn't work. But Scott passed out for an hour or so--we tried to wake him up, but he wasn't moving.
So back in the day, in a fit of pregnancy-induced paranoia, I made my husband get rid of a wooden cutting board that was, I felt, contaminated with bacteria from a (cooked) turkey. In return for his (relatively) good nature in tossing the thing, I got him a bamboo cutting board that was about the same size (not quite as thick).
Then, about a month ago, faced with Play-Doh and without the time to make a better plan, I sacrificed the large wooden cutting board that we inherited fromdoggiesushi and sugarcoatedlie to keep the carpet (somewhat) Play-Doh free. So I got him a wooden cutting board that's about the same size and thickness (but with no little feet).
Yesterday I bathed the boy in the sink. He got our little squirter thing and began hosing down the kitchen. I mopped up (I thought) all of it.
Today I find the new cutting board, which was sitting in the line of (um.) fire, not only cracking along the seams but warped into a shallow U. It rocks, and not in the good way. And the cracks mean I can't make a boat out of it.
I think the next cutting board will be another bamboo one, as I have never had an issue like this with the one we have already.
Today we went to the super-cool park and rode the mini-train, rented a "surrey" bike, played in the water feature, and hit both playgrounds. It was fun! Nothing incredibly adorable to report, aside from my usual enjoyment of watching my son and my husband doing stuff together--Scott taught the Zweeb today that if he wore his baseball hat and stuck his head under the waterfall thing, the water wouldn't get into his eyes as much. So Z. kept his hat on, and hopefully this time next week we won't have freaky scalp-peeling.
Then we came home and tried to get our very tired boy to continue the nap he began in the car. It didn't work. But Scott passed out for an hour or so--we tried to wake him up, but he wasn't moving.
So back in the day, in a fit of pregnancy-induced paranoia, I made my husband get rid of a wooden cutting board that was, I felt, contaminated with bacteria from a (cooked) turkey. In return for his (relatively) good nature in tossing the thing, I got him a bamboo cutting board that was about the same size (not quite as thick).
Then, about a month ago, faced with Play-Doh and without the time to make a better plan, I sacrificed the large wooden cutting board that we inherited from
doggiesushi and sugarcoatedlie to keep the carpet (somewhat) Play-Doh free. So I got him a wooden cutting board that's about the same size and thickness (but with no little feet).Yesterday I bathed the boy in the sink. He got our little squirter thing and began hosing down the kitchen. I mopped up (I thought) all of it.
Today I find the new cutting board, which was sitting in the line of (um.) fire, not only cracking along the seams but warped into a shallow U. It rocks, and not in the good way. And the cracks mean I can't make a boat out of it.
I think the next cutting board will be another bamboo one, as I have never had an issue like this with the one we have already.
I told you I'd do this, Scott
Apr. 8th, 2009 02:23 pmDear Scott:
I say this with all the sincerity and irony of my slacker, GenX heart:
You are awesome, and you are "awesome."
You not only rock, and rock my world, you "rock," and "rock" my world. You also "rock my world."
And don't forget, you are "teh" awesome.
I am glad I had your baby, and "glad" I had "your" baby.
I love you. I "love" you, as well.
(It's kinda better with finger quotes, actually ... whoda thought?)
I say this with all the sincerity and irony of my slacker, GenX heart:
You are awesome, and you are "awesome."
You not only rock, and rock my world, you "rock," and "rock" my world. You also "rock my world."
And don't forget, you are "teh" awesome.
I am glad I had your baby, and "glad" I had "your" baby.
I love you. I "love" you, as well.
(It's kinda better with finger quotes, actually ... whoda thought?)
scenes from my marriage
Apr. 7th, 2009 10:12 pmScott: Bleah! Blugh! (various "oh-that-was-nasty" sounds) God, I need to get the taste out of my--where's the yellow Gatoraide?
Laura: What did you drink? (finds a bottle of yellow Gatoraide, offers it)
Scott: No, the half-full one.
Laura: No idea where it is. What did you drink? (opens fridge, has flash of intuition) The baby's Pedialyte? I tried it--I didn't think it really had a taste.
Scott: It does, drink more!
Laura: No.
Scott: I don't get you.
(Pause.)
Laura: I have to post on LiveJournal.
Laura: What did you drink? (finds a bottle of yellow Gatoraide, offers it)
Scott: No, the half-full one.
Laura: No idea where it is. What did you drink? (opens fridge, has flash of intuition) The baby's Pedialyte? I tried it--I didn't think it really had a taste.
Scott: It does, drink more!
Laura: No.
Scott: I don't get you.
(Pause.)
Laura: I have to post on LiveJournal.
Lollipops, bones, meat, and juice.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 10:17 pmYesterday, the Zweeble hurt his foot. Or his ankle. I dunno which, and he's not the most reliable reporter being, you know, two. But he said his foot hurt, then he'd stumble when he'd try to walk, then he was limping even when he was distracted by a fancy new toy from his grandfather. So I called the pediatrician, got told to wait and see, and this morning he was still limping, so we went to the doctor's office.
Okay, lemme tell you, the people at the pediatrician's office are evil geniuses. They're fundraising for March of Dimes, and they put a lollipop tree with a donation bucket and a sign reading $1 donation and a lollipop at the checkout desk. So all these tearful kids who just got shots or, in our case, are headed off to have x-rays, are seeing lollipops and asking, sorrowfully, "Can I have a lollipop?"
Well, the Zweeble wasn't sorrowful--he was surprisingly polite, actually--but I went and scrounged for change in my car and got him a lollipop out of ... oh, guilt or sympathy or something. Parental squishiness. The picture of my little boy on the x-ray table, scared and tearful.
Which, not so much in reality. He was a little wary of the whole thing; I put him on the table and he hung onto his lollipop with one hand and my fingers with the other, asking, "Mommy? Mommy?"
"I'm right here, baby, I'm not going anywhere."
Then they'd go and hit the button, which was situated behind him, so he'd want to look. Once they said the button was green, he got all chipper because he got to say, "It turns green!" over and over. Between films, we'd look the equipment over. We had to peek underneath to see the little light thing they shone on his leg. Then, after the x-rays were done, we went by the computer in the hall and saw his x-rays. I said, "Look, baby, there are your bones!" He peered at the screen, but was much more impressed with the sticker the nurse gave him--a teddy bear getting an ex-ray with "I had an X-Ray!" written underneath.
In the end, no fractures. We're to keep an eye on him because it could be some viral thing, but probably not, and he's been walking better all day.
Daddy came home with meat and juice for the boy around noon. I got all misty-eyed at this proof of my husband's parental squishiness.
Okay, lemme tell you, the people at the pediatrician's office are evil geniuses. They're fundraising for March of Dimes, and they put a lollipop tree with a donation bucket and a sign reading $1 donation and a lollipop at the checkout desk. So all these tearful kids who just got shots or, in our case, are headed off to have x-rays, are seeing lollipops and asking, sorrowfully, "Can I have a lollipop?"
Well, the Zweeble wasn't sorrowful--he was surprisingly polite, actually--but I went and scrounged for change in my car and got him a lollipop out of ... oh, guilt or sympathy or something. Parental squishiness. The picture of my little boy on the x-ray table, scared and tearful.
Which, not so much in reality. He was a little wary of the whole thing; I put him on the table and he hung onto his lollipop with one hand and my fingers with the other, asking, "Mommy? Mommy?"
"I'm right here, baby, I'm not going anywhere."
Then they'd go and hit the button, which was situated behind him, so he'd want to look. Once they said the button was green, he got all chipper because he got to say, "It turns green!" over and over. Between films, we'd look the equipment over. We had to peek underneath to see the little light thing they shone on his leg. Then, after the x-rays were done, we went by the computer in the hall and saw his x-rays. I said, "Look, baby, there are your bones!" He peered at the screen, but was much more impressed with the sticker the nurse gave him--a teddy bear getting an ex-ray with "I had an X-Ray!" written underneath.
In the end, no fractures. We're to keep an eye on him because it could be some viral thing, but probably not, and he's been walking better all day.
Daddy came home with meat and juice for the boy around noon. I got all misty-eyed at this proof of my husband's parental squishiness.
(no subject)
Mar. 28th, 2009 01:51 pmMy day thus far:
1. Swim class with the boys, then the beach. Holy cats, this town actually has a beach! Okay, it's only as long as my driveway, but it's sandy and there's water. And half the population was there this morning. Yeesh.
2. The ritual juice-and-meat male bonding. I was told, by my two-year-old son, to stay in the car while the men got the meat and juice. Zweeble ate a whole beef stick himself (quit snickering, Jason). Also squirted himself in the face with his grape juice, so he looked like he had purple chicken pox.
3. Home to shower and get myself together to take my car in for a brake check. I figured I'd take my grading and wait. Go to print out the grade sheets I made up (so I can keep track of percentages and stuff), and the paper keeps getting drawn into the machine crooked, then the printer says something is jammed.
After lots of swearing, a lint-free cloth, the instruction manual, two sets of roller cleanings, and lots of wrinkled paper, I find the problem.
Remember those fuzzy worm things with the googly eyes? They have a long bit of clear plastic thread attached to their noses, and then you hold the thing and twitch the thread and it looks like it's moving by itself? Scott got one for the Zweeble. The Zweeble thought the worm was evil and wanted it AWAY, NOW. Mommy put it in the office, on the printer.
Well, today I found it in the printer.
A pair of tweezers, a pair of pliers, and three or four fervent prayers later, the printer is fixed and working fine. Canon Pixma MP610 all-in-one, bay-bee. Survives even fuzzy worms.
I, however, am not going to the dealership today.
4. I made myself a microwave Lo Mein thing that's been in the cabinet forever--the pantry is starting to get a little bare. Two bites in, I realize that not only does it look like Klingon food**, it also tastes like Klingon food.
I take it out and pass Scott. "Cheerios it is, then!" I say, toasting him with the carton of blech.
"That bad, huh?"
"Oh, it's nasty."
"Let me try a bite!"
(This, as many of you know, is really a cornerstone of our relationship.)
He takes a bite, chews, and his facial expression goes from an eager "Let's try the pure evil, it's an adventure!" to a slightly disappointed "That's not so bad" to a slow dawning "Wait, wait ... that is bad. Really bad. Nasty and evil bad." He swallows, and then looks both disgusted and satisfied at the same time. A sight to behold, I assure you.
We both had Cheerios for lunch.
Now I have to clean up the office and get to work. Hopefully things will be uneventful from here, but one never knows.
**Lo mein in general doesn't look Klingon, just this stuff.
1. Swim class with the boys, then the beach. Holy cats, this town actually has a beach! Okay, it's only as long as my driveway, but it's sandy and there's water. And half the population was there this morning. Yeesh.
2. The ritual juice-and-meat male bonding. I was told, by my two-year-old son, to stay in the car while the men got the meat and juice. Zweeble ate a whole beef stick himself (quit snickering, Jason). Also squirted himself in the face with his grape juice, so he looked like he had purple chicken pox.
3. Home to shower and get myself together to take my car in for a brake check. I figured I'd take my grading and wait. Go to print out the grade sheets I made up (so I can keep track of percentages and stuff), and the paper keeps getting drawn into the machine crooked, then the printer says something is jammed.
After lots of swearing, a lint-free cloth, the instruction manual, two sets of roller cleanings, and lots of wrinkled paper, I find the problem.
Remember those fuzzy worm things with the googly eyes? They have a long bit of clear plastic thread attached to their noses, and then you hold the thing and twitch the thread and it looks like it's moving by itself? Scott got one for the Zweeble. The Zweeble thought the worm was evil and wanted it AWAY, NOW. Mommy put it in the office, on the printer.
Well, today I found it in the printer.
A pair of tweezers, a pair of pliers, and three or four fervent prayers later, the printer is fixed and working fine. Canon Pixma MP610 all-in-one, bay-bee. Survives even fuzzy worms.
I, however, am not going to the dealership today.
4. I made myself a microwave Lo Mein thing that's been in the cabinet forever--the pantry is starting to get a little bare. Two bites in, I realize that not only does it look like Klingon food**, it also tastes like Klingon food.
I take it out and pass Scott. "Cheerios it is, then!" I say, toasting him with the carton of blech.
"That bad, huh?"
"Oh, it's nasty."
"Let me try a bite!"
(This, as many of you know, is really a cornerstone of our relationship.)
He takes a bite, chews, and his facial expression goes from an eager "Let's try the pure evil, it's an adventure!" to a slightly disappointed "That's not so bad" to a slow dawning "Wait, wait ... that is bad. Really bad. Nasty and evil bad." He swallows, and then looks both disgusted and satisfied at the same time. A sight to behold, I assure you.
We both had Cheerios for lunch.
Now I have to clean up the office and get to work. Hopefully things will be uneventful from here, but one never knows.
**Lo mein in general doesn't look Klingon, just this stuff.
I still find him heart-meltingly adorable, even when he's asleep on the couch, mouth open, snorig softly, drooling, one side of his face all red from being lain on, most of the rest of it covered in splotches of dried-on cookie.
gah, the cute, the cute!
Mar. 14th, 2009 03:35 pmdealio and the Zweeble have spent most of the day together. They've been to swim class, played on the beach, gone to the grocery store, changed out the water softener salt, and are currently sacked out on the couch together.The Zweeb is on the inside, near the back cushions, facing out. Scott is on the outside, facing in. The Zweeb is all curled up inside the slight curve of Scott's body.
It's adorable.
(no subject)
Jan. 1st, 2009 04:44 pmIn 2009, 
stotangirl resolves to...
stotangirl resolves to...Go to scott every Sunday.
Admit my true feelings tovisioluxus.
Lose ten zombies by March.
Put fifty comics a month into my savings account.
Find a new music.
Take evening classes instanduponit.
Admit my true feelings to
visioluxus.Lose ten zombies by March.
Put fifty comics a month into my savings account.
Find a new music.
Take evening classes in
standuponit.So, in keeping with my "resolutions" ...
Today was Christmas Part 2: Attack of the Mega Blocks (the sequel to Christmas Part 1: The [not so] Snowy Menace), and from my lovely husband I received ... well, the actual ones I got aren't listed anymore, but this, except the photos were this and one called (I think--I had it written down, but of course Scott took the list) "Her Ghost." Which is like wearing a ghost story around my neck.
They're beautiful pendants, a little bigger than I expected (despite the measurements being listed--I'm not good at figuring how big things are from measurements--but it was a very neutral thing, the size; as long as they weren't the size of my head, not a thing), and they're different. A little bit of oddity to wear to work or wherever.
(NOTE: Some of the images are not safe for work!)
I think, given the way I've been reading comics, I can handle that resolution ...
And starting March 1, I can get started on that last one.
it's that time again ...
Dec. 16th, 2008 11:35 pmI am posting this early because I don't think I'll get a chance tomorrow.
So:
Seventeen years ago this past September or so, I metdealio.
Somewhat shortly thereafter, I was walking back to my dorm from somewhere on campus, feeling homesick. There was snow on the ground, I think. And from behind me I heard someone call my name, and the thunk of boots on the sidewalk, and turned to see ... well, Scott, bounding over to me with his trench coat billowing around his legs, grinning at me. And I wasn't homesick anymore. In fact, I remember noticing how happy I was to see him.
Today (well, tomorrow as I write this) is our eighth wedding anniversary. And on the day we got married, I was, again, so happy to see him. And when I see him today ... well, you get the point.
There is no one in the world I would rather be married to. Happy anniversary, Scott. I love you.
So:
Seventeen years ago this past September or so, I met
dealio. Somewhat shortly thereafter, I was walking back to my dorm from somewhere on campus, feeling homesick. There was snow on the ground, I think. And from behind me I heard someone call my name, and the thunk of boots on the sidewalk, and turned to see ... well, Scott, bounding over to me with his trench coat billowing around his legs, grinning at me. And I wasn't homesick anymore. In fact, I remember noticing how happy I was to see him.
Today (well, tomorrow as I write this) is our eighth wedding anniversary. And on the day we got married, I was, again, so happy to see him. And when I see him today ... well, you get the point.
There is no one in the world I would rather be married to. Happy anniversary, Scott. I love you.
I'm thankful for stuffing and pie.
Nov. 26th, 2008 08:28 pm(actually, just stuffing. I'd prefer cake.)
So, what am I thankful for this year?
1. My Zweeble, all 30 pounds and nearly 4 feet of him. Today I told him he'd have to ask his grandmother if he could have some pumpkin bread, and he ran over to her and said, "Grammie? Have? Punkin bread?"
2. Mydealio. Always. He's conditioned me to see poking me in the ribs as proof of love.
3. My dad, who, when his grandson is crying, will resort to sillier and sillier ways of making him smile. No dignity there at all.
4. My mom and grandma, without whom I think I might dissolve into a blob of ... something. Something gross, and probably covered in baby snot.
5. My friends. Who remind me I am more than just the Zweeble's mother.
I could however, do without the leftover cough from my cold. Just sayin'.
Oh, and I plan to start The Wordy Shipmates tomorrow. 'Cause, you know, Puritans!
So, what am I thankful for this year?
1. My Zweeble, all 30 pounds and nearly 4 feet of him. Today I told him he'd have to ask his grandmother if he could have some pumpkin bread, and he ran over to her and said, "Grammie? Have? Punkin bread?"
2. My
dealio. Always. He's conditioned me to see poking me in the ribs as proof of love.3. My dad, who, when his grandson is crying, will resort to sillier and sillier ways of making him smile. No dignity there at all.
4. My mom and grandma, without whom I think I might dissolve into a blob of ... something. Something gross, and probably covered in baby snot.
5. My friends. Who remind me I am more than just the Zweeble's mother.
I could however, do without the leftover cough from my cold. Just sayin'.
Oh, and I plan to start The Wordy Shipmates tomorrow. 'Cause, you know, Puritans!
So we're watching Fringe, because my husband is longing for something kinda X-Files-y, and the creepy dude from Lord of the Rings is describing to the Cate Blanchette lookalike how she can talk to her comatose boyfriend via some sort of drug-induced-technobabble, and all I can say is thank god for Pacey, explaining how idiotic the entire idea is, or I'd probably attempt to change the channel.
And now we're discussing whether or not we would do the drug-induced-technobabble thing for one another if the other of us were in the coma, and so far it looks like the answer is no, but mostly because the creepy dude from LOTR is a loon. If, say, Stephen Hawking was the one laying out the odds, and the odds of it working were decent, then Scott might consider it.
I say, if I'm comatose and my flesh is turning transparent and melting off my bones--or it looks that way, anyway--I'm not entirely sure you should be working on rescuing me. I'm tempted to just have Scott pull out the living will and collect the insurance.
Hey, I've been re-watching Jekyll, don't look at me.
And now we're discussing whether or not we would do the drug-induced-technobabble thing for one another if the other of us were in the coma, and so far it looks like the answer is no, but mostly because the creepy dude from LOTR is a loon. If, say, Stephen Hawking was the one laying out the odds, and the odds of it working were decent, then Scott might consider it.
I say, if I'm comatose and my flesh is turning transparent and melting off my bones--or it looks that way, anyway--I'm not entirely sure you should be working on rescuing me. I'm tempted to just have Scott pull out the living will and collect the insurance.
Hey, I've been re-watching Jekyll, don't look at me.
All right, Scott, how'd I do?
How well do I know my husband? (I'm pretty sure this is not just a husband meme--I think it's SOs in general)
1. Sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
One of the following:
--bad movie on SciFi
--"expose" of UFOs
--some show about Bigfoot, Yetis, Chupacabras, or other urban folkloric creature (like, right now, actually)
--some show about real-life ghosts/hauntings, historical or otherwise
--Good Eats/Mythbusters/Dirty Jobs
2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Hm. Good question. What do they put on Cesar salad?
3. What's one food he doesn't like?
Peas. I'd say Chef Boyardee, but that doesn't count as food, that would just be crap.
4. You go out to the bar. What does he order?
Killian's Irish Red or John Adams (is that the name? The one after the president)
5. Where did he go to high school?
Connersville.
6. What size shoe does he wear?
A men's 8, I think?
7. If he were to collect anything, what would it be?
Well, obviously the author of this survey doesn't know my husband at all.
Comic books, action figures, cook books, weird art, male accoutrements, jackets, hot sauces.
8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
Hm. You know, Scott doesn't really have favorite things. I'd say he'll usually go for a Reuben or a corned-beef sandwich, but only if they're good.
9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
I don't see him eating the same thing every day, ever. But I think he'd probably want to eat certain things more often--the Cajun stuff, the Indian stuff, Thai food, Vietnamese food, Cuban food, things he loves to make but doesn't have the time to, things that look like fun to make, things that no other person on the planet would even try ... the list goes on.
Then again, the answer might be gizzards.
10. What is his favorite cereal?
Right now, he's been into the Fruity Cheerios. CoCo Pebbles/Puffs, maybe?
11. What would he never wear?
Underwear. :) Flip-flops?
12. What is his favorite sports team?
He doesn't like sports.
13. Who will he vote for?
Oh, do not get me started. He's thinking about not voting at all.
14. Who is his best friend?
Me.
15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn't do?
Criticize myself. He'd also like me to rinse the dishes more thoroughly before I put them in the dishwasher. And he'd like me to be a more adventurous eater.
16. How many states has he lived in?
4--IN, OH, LA, FL.
17. What is his heritage?
Mutt? I think I know about as much as he does about the family in North Carolina, but not much about his mom's side.
18. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
Depends--has he recently had something (like a fruit-basket cake) that he wants me to try and make, or is he in the red velvet mood, or does he just not care much? He varies. And my grandmother does the birthday cakes, anyway. Cream cheese frosting, though.
19. Did he play sports in high school?
Only if D&D and throwing water balloons out of the hatch-back of a friend's car count.
20. What could he spend hours doing?
Reading comics, playing video games, tracking down comics, hanging out with me, cooking, playing with the Zweeble.
How well do I know my husband? (I'm pretty sure this is not just a husband meme--I think it's SOs in general)
1. Sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
One of the following:
--bad movie on SciFi
--"expose" of UFOs
--some show about Bigfoot, Yetis, Chupacabras, or other urban folkloric creature (like, right now, actually)
--some show about real-life ghosts/hauntings, historical or otherwise
--Good Eats/Mythbusters/Dirty Jobs
2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Hm. Good question. What do they put on Cesar salad?
3. What's one food he doesn't like?
Peas. I'd say Chef Boyardee, but that doesn't count as food, that would just be crap.
4. You go out to the bar. What does he order?
Killian's Irish Red or John Adams (is that the name? The one after the president)
5. Where did he go to high school?
Connersville.
6. What size shoe does he wear?
A men's 8, I think?
7. If he were to collect anything, what would it be?
Well, obviously the author of this survey doesn't know my husband at all.
Comic books, action figures, cook books, weird art, male accoutrements, jackets, hot sauces.
8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
Hm. You know, Scott doesn't really have favorite things. I'd say he'll usually go for a Reuben or a corned-beef sandwich, but only if they're good.
9. What would this person eat every day if he could?
I don't see him eating the same thing every day, ever. But I think he'd probably want to eat certain things more often--the Cajun stuff, the Indian stuff, Thai food, Vietnamese food, Cuban food, things he loves to make but doesn't have the time to, things that look like fun to make, things that no other person on the planet would even try ... the list goes on.
Then again, the answer might be gizzards.
10. What is his favorite cereal?
Right now, he's been into the Fruity Cheerios. CoCo Pebbles/Puffs, maybe?
11. What would he never wear?
Underwear. :) Flip-flops?
12. What is his favorite sports team?
He doesn't like sports.
13. Who will he vote for?
Oh, do not get me started. He's thinking about not voting at all.
14. Who is his best friend?
Me.
15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn't do?
Criticize myself. He'd also like me to rinse the dishes more thoroughly before I put them in the dishwasher. And he'd like me to be a more adventurous eater.
16. How many states has he lived in?
4--IN, OH, LA, FL.
17. What is his heritage?
Mutt? I think I know about as much as he does about the family in North Carolina, but not much about his mom's side.
18. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?
Depends--has he recently had something (like a fruit-basket cake) that he wants me to try and make, or is he in the red velvet mood, or does he just not care much? He varies. And my grandmother does the birthday cakes, anyway. Cream cheese frosting, though.
19. Did he play sports in high school?
Only if D&D and throwing water balloons out of the hatch-back of a friend's car count.
20. What could he spend hours doing?
Reading comics, playing video games, tracking down comics, hanging out with me, cooking, playing with the Zweeble.
Hey dealio?
Jun. 15th, 2008 01:46 pmEvery time someone tells me that the Zweeble is just like you, I think, Cool.
Happy 2nd Father's Day, Scott.
Happy 2nd Father's Day, Scott.
(no subject)
Apr. 8th, 2008 07:55 amScott came home feeling awful, took Airborne and Tylenol, bundled himself on the couch, drank tea and had some soup. Went to bed. Woke up feeling fine.
If *I* feel awful, take over-the-counter meds, bundle into bed, drink tea and eat soup, I'm sick for three days and have to have antibiotics to kick my sinus infection.
Is this fair?
Clearly, I need to start taking Airborne and staying on the couch when I feel ill, as they're the magic ingredients to the cure.
If *I* feel awful, take over-the-counter meds, bundle into bed, drink tea and eat soup, I'm sick for three days and have to have antibiotics to kick my sinus infection.
Is this fair?
Clearly, I need to start taking Airborne and staying on the couch when I feel ill, as they're the magic ingredients to the cure.
