Quote of the Week:
John Locke: "Was he talking about what I think he was talking about?"
Benjamin Linus: "If you mean time traveling bunnies, then yes."
Gotta love good dialogue - thank goodness the writer's strike is over!
Have you ever been so into a TV show that season finales just drive you CRAZY?!?!?! I want to know what is going to happen to my friends on the island! I can't wait until next season! I need to know now!
My biggest concern, however: Who is feeding Claire's baby, Aaron? And why is a "five-week" old baby so freakin' big?
Anyway, I am all about instant gratification. If Lost were a novel, I would have stayed up all day and night reading it until I was done. And if there were a series of Lost books - oh, would I be in trouble. Actually, it would be my family that suffers. The real victims of Oceanic Flight 815. There would be no clean socks. Or underwear. Or dishes. Or dinner on the table. Or anyone to break up squabbaling children. It would be a little bit like living on the island without any kind-hearted survivors. Just savages.
Really. Savages. And if you have never placed a meticulous, overly scrupulous five-year-old in the same room as a free-spirited, rather intense three-and-a-half-year-old, and left them loosely supervised, and just let the rivers flow where they may, you would agree. Savages.
It is really an experiment of sorts. One that every now and then I subject myself to. Just to see what will happen. It's not pretty. Not at all. It involves a lot of shrieking (making dogs cower at such high decibels). And a lot of wailing. And whining. Some physical aggression. And lots and lots of incomprehensible language. And a mom who just wants to shut her eyes and cover her ears. And count to 623. Good times. Stop by and I'll show you this marvel sometime.
So, all that being said, I guess I should be very thankful that Lost is just a television show that doles out the plot one week at a time, two seasons per year so that my family does not self destruct. Or disappear. Like the island in the finale.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
But Who's Really Counting?
Only 31 hours, 19 minutes, and 55 seconds till the season finale of Lost...but who's really counting?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Minute Maid 100% Apple White Grape Juice Box Trivia Questions
- Question: If you were a 3-year-old, how many times would you ask for a juice box before you finally gave up?
- Answer: 623
- Question: And if you were a mom of a 3-year-old who would ask you 623 times for a juice box before giving up, how many times would the 3-year-old have to ask you before you would finally give in, just begging for her to please leave you alone already?
- Answer: 9
- Question: And what if you were the mom of a 3-year-old who starts asking for cupcakes at 9:45 am, using the same juice-box inquisition tactic she achieved success with 7 minutes earlier?
- Answer: Lock yourself in the bathroom and curl up in a ball on the floor with your hands over your ears and your eyes shut tight. Counting slowly. To 623.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Did I Really Just Say That
If you had asked me 5 years ago, these are 10 things that I thought would NEVER come out of my mouth:
- Stop using the Ranch dressing as fingerpaint right this instant!
- Eat two more carrots and then you can have a chocolate chip cookie.
- Do not sit on your sister's head.
- Please do not put your shoe in your mouth.
- Who left a piece of cheese on the bathroom counter?
- Why is there a trail of pink nail polish in my bathroom at 6:30 in the morning?
- Is there a reason an entire roll of toilet paper is lying in a pile next to the bathtub?
- We do not lick people....it's not polite.
- Do I really have to make you a bologna sandwich with ketchup on it?
- Why are there are rocks under my pillow?
Monday, May 12, 2008
It All Started With a Chihuahua
Have you ever started one project that turns into about three or four or seventeen others? Yeah...that happens to me all the time. And then my usually dormant OCD kicks in and I just can't stop. Even as I am typing this, all I can think about is cleaning grout.
This time, it all started with a Chihuahua. A peculiar little thing named Josie. She has a penchant for keeping her nose warm by tucking it directly under the attached end of her tail (gross) and leaving "Josie trails" on fiberous surfaces (read: peeing on every single carpet and/or rug in the house). So, I asked my wonderfully kind and patient husband (six months ago) to please remove the carpet in our bedroom before I set fire to it the very next day. Six months came and went, and I just could never bring myself to light the match. I am sure that if I had, I would not have been happy with the results.
So, finally, a few weeks ago, the joyous day came when the husband just woke up one day with only one thing on his agenda (well, two if you count being a lecherous dork): to pull that carpet outta' there.
(Shhhh...don't tell him, but really I stayed awake all night whispering a hypnotizing chant in his ear: "I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out..." You should try it sometime. Sure, you're tired the next day, but when you've got your husband doing all the chores and taking care of the kids for the day, you can sneak off and take a nice little nap!)
Now that the carpet had been exterminated and laid to rest, I could proceed to the next task - paint. It started with the ceiling in that ever-daring hue of Roadster White. Which is really just a very light cream color, but Ralph Lauren wants you to think it is fun and exciting by throwing in the "speediness" of Roadster. RL is very cutting edge like that. I'm sure he is always thinking about the salability of a can of paint. His niche in the paint market is probably the bulk of his retirement plan. That, or the dozens of other home lines he endorses. Or that genre of clothing called fashion design. That area of culture that I know nothing about or have any interest in. I was born without the fashion OCD gene. Sorry, RL, but I tend to prefer jeans and cotton t-shirts. And your color palette in the paint section at Home Depot.
So, back to my paint. Everyone knows that when you paint the ceiling, you are going to have to paint the walls. And when you paint the walls in your master bedroom, you are going to have to paint the master bathroom. And when you paint the master bathroom, you are going to have to paint its ceiling, too. And when you live in a house whose previous owner loved high-gloss paint in the bathroom, you are going to have to put a minimum of two coats on. And while the two coats of paint are drying, you notice that, boy, the grout in your floor tile is really gross. So you go to Home Depot. And you buy some heavy-duty, burns the skin on your hands and knees grout cleaner. And everyone knows that after you have spent an hour scrubbing grout lines with heavy-duty grout cleaner and a toothbrush that it MUST be sealed to prevent such grossness from ever occuring again. And just for safe measure, two coats of sealant with a minimum of 1 hour dry time between each application must be used. Just for safe measure. And when you get to the doorway of the bathroom, you realize that it looks great, but makes the rest of the tile look even worse. So...if you just keep going, things will be just fine.
Except that it is 10:30 pm on a weeknight. And you have finals to study for. And final projects to work on. And the rest of the house is a disaster. And that unreliable laundry fairy didn't even feel the need to stop by to help out while I battled my compulsive behavior. Obsessive compulsive behavior. And it all started with a Chihuahua.
This time, it all started with a Chihuahua. A peculiar little thing named Josie. She has a penchant for keeping her nose warm by tucking it directly under the attached end of her tail (gross) and leaving "Josie trails" on fiberous surfaces (read: peeing on every single carpet and/or rug in the house). So, I asked my wonderfully kind and patient husband (six months ago) to please remove the carpet in our bedroom before I set fire to it the very next day. Six months came and went, and I just could never bring myself to light the match. I am sure that if I had, I would not have been happy with the results.
So, finally, a few weeks ago, the joyous day came when the husband just woke up one day with only one thing on his agenda (well, two if you count being a lecherous dork): to pull that carpet outta' there.
(Shhhh...don't tell him, but really I stayed awake all night whispering a hypnotizing chant in his ear: "I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out of the bedroom tomorrow because my wife is sweet and caring and she deserves it. I will pull the carpet out..." You should try it sometime. Sure, you're tired the next day, but when you've got your husband doing all the chores and taking care of the kids for the day, you can sneak off and take a nice little nap!)
Now that the carpet had been exterminated and laid to rest, I could proceed to the next task - paint. It started with the ceiling in that ever-daring hue of Roadster White. Which is really just a very light cream color, but Ralph Lauren wants you to think it is fun and exciting by throwing in the "speediness" of Roadster. RL is very cutting edge like that. I'm sure he is always thinking about the salability of a can of paint. His niche in the paint market is probably the bulk of his retirement plan. That, or the dozens of other home lines he endorses. Or that genre of clothing called fashion design. That area of culture that I know nothing about or have any interest in. I was born without the fashion OCD gene. Sorry, RL, but I tend to prefer jeans and cotton t-shirts. And your color palette in the paint section at Home Depot.
So, back to my paint. Everyone knows that when you paint the ceiling, you are going to have to paint the walls. And when you paint the walls in your master bedroom, you are going to have to paint the master bathroom. And when you paint the master bathroom, you are going to have to paint its ceiling, too. And when you live in a house whose previous owner loved high-gloss paint in the bathroom, you are going to have to put a minimum of two coats on. And while the two coats of paint are drying, you notice that, boy, the grout in your floor tile is really gross. So you go to Home Depot. And you buy some heavy-duty, burns the skin on your hands and knees grout cleaner. And everyone knows that after you have spent an hour scrubbing grout lines with heavy-duty grout cleaner and a toothbrush that it MUST be sealed to prevent such grossness from ever occuring again. And just for safe measure, two coats of sealant with a minimum of 1 hour dry time between each application must be used. Just for safe measure. And when you get to the doorway of the bathroom, you realize that it looks great, but makes the rest of the tile look even worse. So...if you just keep going, things will be just fine.
Except that it is 10:30 pm on a weeknight. And you have finals to study for. And final projects to work on. And the rest of the house is a disaster. And that unreliable laundry fairy didn't even feel the need to stop by to help out while I battled my compulsive behavior. Obsessive compulsive behavior. And it all started with a Chihuahua.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
And What About a Pink Roller Coaster?
What about a pink roller coaster???
Random.
Even more random as an interjection to the conversation about the fishing trip with Daddy this weekend.
And completely irrelevant to fishing. Unless maybe it's a three-year-old's attempt at an elaborate metaphor for fishing. Yeah, that's it. You know, "pink" to represent the breed of fish known as the "Pink Salmon". And "roller coaster" to represent said "Pink Salmon" swimming upstream?
Pink Roller Coaster = Pink Salmon Swimming Upstream
I know, I know, it's definitely a stretch and I'm attempting to make my daughter sound like some sort of child genius. That, and the fact that they are going nowhere near a river that has Pink Salmon. Rainbow Trout, maybe. Catfish, possibly. Pink Salmon, definitely not.
So, I guess we should just call it what it is: random.
Random.
Even more random as an interjection to the conversation about the fishing trip with Daddy this weekend.
And completely irrelevant to fishing. Unless maybe it's a three-year-old's attempt at an elaborate metaphor for fishing. Yeah, that's it. You know, "pink" to represent the breed of fish known as the "Pink Salmon". And "roller coaster" to represent said "Pink Salmon" swimming upstream?
Pink Roller Coaster = Pink Salmon Swimming Upstream
I know, I know, it's definitely a stretch and I'm attempting to make my daughter sound like some sort of child genius. That, and the fact that they are going nowhere near a river that has Pink Salmon. Rainbow Trout, maybe. Catfish, possibly. Pink Salmon, definitely not.
So, I guess we should just call it what it is: random.
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