Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Are you SURE that's a vagina?

For those of you who are teaching your kids the generic "girls have a vagina" lesson, you ARE teaching them that the proper term for the entire outer package is vulva and not vagina, right? I mean, you know that the words are not synonymous, don't you?  
Just in case, let me give you a quick anatomy lesson. 

Vagina and vulva are not the same thing.  They are not interchangeable physiological terms.
The vagina is part of the inner workings, not the outer.


I asked this question on a social networking forum and got a variety of responses including this one:
"My child is too young to know the technical terms for her body parts." (Ignore the fact that the pet name we have created for her genitalia is four syllables long and she's already made up a song about it.)


And this one:
"Vulva is just a gross word."   (Vulva is not a gross word.  "MOIST" is a gross word.)  
  
And also this one: "It all means the same thing."
(To say that it's all the same thing is as inaccurate as saying that your hand is a finger and your finger is a hand and that's just plain silly.)


You know what this post needs?  Venn Diagrams!  (I know they look like crazy cartoon breasts.  Shut up.)
It's true that all rectangles are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rectangles.  
Likewise, all vulvae contain vaginas (or rather, the vaginal opening), but all vaginas don't contain the vulvae.



Yes, there is a difference and the difference is huge.  Vulva = clitoris, labia (2 sets) urethra, vaginal opening.  Vagina = the canal that leads from the vaginal opening to the cervix.   


Do you need another diagram?  Okay, here:  




So if you choose to shave your vulva, that's cool.  Get creative. Have fun with it.  However, if you choose to shave your vagina, it's not going to end well.  Don't use the good towels. 


Now, I know there will be someone who will get all worked up about this. Calm down. You can teach your kids whatever you want.  Don't sweat it because some stranger on the internet told you that it's the wrong word.   You're not breaking any law of child rearing.  No member of the Vulva Brigade will show up and ticket you for referring to your lady bits as your bajingo and hand you some reading material about the inaccurately named Vagina Monologues. I'm not going to take away your euphemisms.  Hell, euphemisms are fun!  Tell them it's a Harvey Wallbanger or a FlufferNutter if you like.   


I'm just saying that technically, it's incorrect.  


To recap:

The vulva is the correct term for the outside parts as a collective whole.

The vagina is the correct term for the "collective hole".  



What's your favorite euphemism for the VULVA?





  
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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

To The Obscene Pantomimist In The Car Behind Me

Dear Sir,

I know that you're in a bigger hurry than I am and I can see you in my rear-view mirror as you drum your fingers on the steering wheel and gesture emphatically at me to go ahead and make my turn.  I'd love to heed your request so you could stop waving your hands and making angry faces, but the light is red and I can read.  In case you can't, let me help you out.  That sign across from us says "No Turn On Red".

Stupid ass.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

The Bulging Boulevard Boys - Day Two

I know I promised to get a better picture of the Penis De Milo, and although this one is more in focus, it seems that one of them was feeling shy today.  Either that or he's peeing on the house while he's supposed to be in Time Out.   Then again, maybe it's a Blair Witch Project kind of thing.

You make the call. 


Someone was naughty.

I hope they're not some kind of perverted Chia Pet.  (I'll keep you posted as to any other changes.)

Friday, March 16, 2012

Is that a penis in your yard?

When did mannequin parts become a popular choice in lawn decor?  
Penis De Milo?

I wanted to ask that very question of the people who own this house, but I was too afraid to knock on the door and ask, for fear of being thrown into a well in the basement and told to put the lotion on my skin.   

Lucky for you, gentle reader, I wasn't too afraid to drive slowly by and have my ten-year-old take a picture, hoping that no one was home to see us gawking at The Three Pelvises stationed in front of their house. If anyone had come out to ask me, I would have told them "It's for my blog!  People need to see this!"...as I drove away, cackling.


So you see, it was purely for your benefit that I snapped this picture; to expose you all to what I believe may be the new height of modern art.   It's clearly a collection of an abbreviated form of Michelangelo's David.

Don't give me any bull about being able to see this kind of "art" at any clothing store in the mall.   I can't even tell you the last time I saw a naked mannequin at the mall, excepting the time when I walked past a salesclerk wrestling the pants off a member of his display personnel.  I felt like I had just interrupted the filming of a horrifically disturbing rape scene in which the victim had first been dismembered, when he looked guiltily up at me.  One look seemed to say, "What happens at the mall before business hours, stays at the mall"... until it's written on my blog for all of you to read. 

Where was I headed with this?  Oh, yes.

Exposure to the arts.  You needed it, I'm providing it.  

 You're welcome.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Best Forking Spoons You'll Ever Buy.

I was browsing the kitchen stuffs on Ebay and ran across a listing for a set of multi-colored measuring spoons with a "buy it now" price of $1,043.46 

What an exorbitant amount for a set of measuring spoons! Surely there must be something else about them that makes them so special, like they're, oh, I don't know...magical...or made of Plutonium or just the best damned spoons you'll ever buy.

I had to know.  

So I asked the seller this question:  "Do these measuring spoons contain Plutonium? Is that why they're listed for so much? I'd like Plutonium measuring spoons..."


I patiently await his response...



...and I'm kind of hoping they're Plutonium.   


Update!  I got a reply.  It might be easier to just show you what was said, so I'll quote our correspondence here:

Subject: Details about item: RandomNinja sent a message about Farberware Color Measuring Spoons, Mixed Colors, Set of 5 #250989733747
Sent Date: Mar-14-12 21:27:07 PDT


Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Do these measuring spoons contain Plutonium? Is that why they're listed for so much? I'd like Plutonium measuring spoons...
- RandomNinja 


Dear RandomNinja,

Hello
It's a typo .
we will fix it shortly.
Thank you
"Sam"

-GuyWhoSellsSpoons



 Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Damn. I really could've used that Plutonium.

- RandomNinja





DearRandomNinja,

Responded

-
GuyWhoSellsSpoons

Clearly, GuyWhoSellsSpoons doesn't care about my Plutonium needs.  "Responded".   Indeed!

I was curious to see what the new asking price of these magical, wondrous spoons had been changed to, so I clicked on the link at the bottom of the email.   $1034.51!!   What the...?


I was not satisfied.  So I emailed him again: 





Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Wait. So now the buying price is $1,034.51?? I have to ask what the hell these spoons are really made of.

- RandomNinja
I haven't gotten a reply from this last yet, but when I checked the site ten minutes later it was $1031.53.  I think these things really must be made of Plutonium and he's just not being straight with me.

Now I HAVE to have them. Who can loan me a grand?






Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Bristol Gets Tanked

I had intended to announce that four new fish were added to the ranks yesterday.  The Man brought home two Balloon Mollies, a Mickey Mouse Platy and an Albino Bristle-nose Plecostomus. 

As of ten o'clock last night, three of the newbies were happily sharing the tankspace with the others, but the Pleco was nowhere to be seen.  

This morning, I discovered the albino didn't make it.   The Man doesn't seem to think the casualties should be recorded unless they make it one full day, but I am far too serious about this Death Toll-keeper job to get caught up on technicalities.  

*writes down Albino Bristle-nose Plecostomus - Bristol Palin - /3/14/12 - RIP*

Welcome, surviving newcomers, Ringo, Waldo, and Steamboat Willie.  We hope you enjoy your stay.

Happy trails, Bristol.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Buttcrack Hero - In Stereo

Sometimes my life is steeped in the ridiculous. (What fun would this blog be if it wasn't?)
  
Last week's blissful existence was derailed by a little slip that prompted this late night mobile status update on Facebook:   "Sonofamotherbutthumper, one of my hearing aids fell down the cold air return vent. And it wasn't even the one that whistles incessantly. Furking FURK!"

Oh, the drama, right?  Well, I knew it was NOT going to be found that night, so I went to bed and tried to dream of happier things...happier things that cost less money to replace than a $2000 hearing aid.  That was difficult. 

The next morning, the search began.  


I tried to look for it myself, in the logical place, which was the cold air return vent directly below my room.  I know that gravity makes stuff basically fall straight down and not up.  I'm a genius like that.  Of course, I had zero luck finding it, so The Man called the furnace maintenance company who sent over a lovely gentleman with ill-fitting pants to rescue my hearing aid from...wherever stuff goes when it falls down that vent. 


I've mentioned before that people don't believe me when I tell them I'm very hard of hearing.  This time proved to be no different as he lay on the floor with his ass-crack in the air and spoke into the vent, looking for my missing hearing aid.  So as not to hover over the man while he worked (I didn't really need to watch his butt get any more air), I excused myself and went back to my business on the computer.  He came in periodically to ask me stuff and managed to startle me every time.  It was as if he forgot that what he was looking for was a hearing aid and that it was MINE. 

Um...that thing you're trying so hard to find?  Yeah, I kind of need it to hear you, dude.  

It took three hours of search and rescue attempts with lots of banging around and cutting holes in things to locate it, but he did eventually find that mysterious place where lost things go in our house and retrieved my precious battery-operated listening device.  It didn't even cost me $400 to get my hearing aid back.  
It cost $381.99.  

But just look at all the other stuff he rescued as well! He found...*takes deep breath*...
JACKPOT!

 One silver needle, a broken rosary, purple Mardi Gras beads, a plastic princess lipstick, one beaded bracelet, a plastic french fry, six Barbie shoes, one Barbie bathing suit, one Barbie nightshirt, four barrettes, one hair tie, three screws, one nut, three marbles, a Baby Annabel pacifier clip, a purple, plastic boat propeller, a silver pompon, one AA battery, an orange crayon, ten pieces of Barbie dog kibble, four checkers, one yellow Lego (which is actually from the previous owners of the house, meaning that it's been in there for probably twenty years or longer), ten plastic beads, one key-chain, a Mommy's Little Patient "magic" baby spoon, a button, miscellaneous My Little Pony accessories, Green M&M on a skateboard, one Phonak Amio hearing aid and twelve cents.

*exhales*  

Sadly, I'm left to wonder what's disappeared down the other vents in our house.  I'm not curious enough to pay the Buttcrack Hero nearly $400 to find out. 


Now that that's over and done with, I'm happy to say I can get back to the things that matter.  
Those pigs don't fling irate fowl at themselves, you know.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Fishy Update - CeCe went to Sea Sea Sea.

CeCe the Sunrise Platy was found dead at the bottom of the volcano.  The Aquatic Forensics Department is baffled as to what made her throw herself in and tankmates remain tight-lipped about the incident, denying allegations that she was part of a ritual sacrifice.




RIP CeCe
*makes note on Fish Death Toll Clipboard*



Friday, March 9, 2012

KONY 2012

If you haven't yet seen the video and joined the cause, please watch it now and take it into consideration.  
We can make a difference.  








Please help. http://kony2012.s3-website-us-east-1.amazonaws.com/

The sales of the KONY 2012 kits have been put on hold due to such a high response, but you can still show your support by signing the pledge and downloading the kit for free.  

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Pig Sitting

We agreed to take care of Lily's former class pet over spring break as a favor to her old 4th grade teacher.  She's a guinea pig and a lovely house guest, despite being a bit of a squeaky wheel.  We'll make her comfortable here, and shower her with love and affection...provided that she follows the rules of the house.

So welcome back, Bugsly.  I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.  
Wake up call at 8 a.m.?  Of course, ma'am.  Fresh Timothy hay daily?  Very good, ma'am.  Snuggling on Sam's lap for hours at a time?  Absolutely, ma'am.  Leaving little brown Tic-Tacs on my furniture?  

Fuck you, pig.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Help for Cat People - Simple solutions to your cat problems.

The Problem:  Kitteh wants closeness, but impedes blog writing by taking up too much room on the desk or sitting right on the keyboard. 

The Solution:  Zippered Sweatshirt Kitteh Sling. 


 Now, what do I do about this one?

Saturday, February 18, 2012

RIP, Randy Jackson.

And so it begins.
Two weeks ago I told you we were getting fish.  This week three teeny, tiny, little non-fish called Zebra Danios were added to the water. The Man said he'd start with a few inexpensive fish to "get the tank established", so he brought home Larry, Darryl and Darryl.  It seems that of the three, Larry is the only one with the teeny, tiny fish guts to break from his cohorts and brave the doorways of Castle Rohan.  Darryl and Darryl, more chicken than fish, are inseparable. They follow each other around like they've got magnets inside them.  I know, I know.  They're schooling fish.  That's what they're supposed to do.  Still...

I really thought we'd lose Darryl first.  I figured that one of them would wander too far from the other and die from separation anxiety.  I was wrong.  All three are still swimming.

Today, The Man brought home five Neon Tetras and a snail.   We have yet to see the snail put anything outside of its shell, so I cannot confirm that it is actually alive, but the Tetras are...with one exception.  

After his initial release into the tank, Randy Jackson became disoriented and listless as he caught himself in the filter's output current over and over again.  The Man knew the end was near, and he took the net out and scooped Randy from the water.  As he flushed him away, he offered these parting words:

 "I don't want you contaminating my tank, Dawg."

(So touching. *tear*)


*makes note on Death Toll Clipboard* 

 2/18/12  RIP, Randy Jackson.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Before I became a mom, I never...

...answered the door with one breast in and one out of my bra.

...told a passerby at Target that I was on my way to return my crying child at the service desk.


...reminded a fellow parent just how much the overhead compartment on a plane can store.



...understood what was really meant by "extended breastfeeding"(please see also: Co-sleeping,  feeding around a corner, Longboobs McGee, I am not a taffy pull)


...ate food that had been on and/or in another person's face.

...watched Barney and Friends.

...feared that cartoon violence would be acted out in my living room.


...talked with another person's imaginary friends.
...worried that another person's imaginary friends would be a bad influence on my child. 
...scolded an imaginary friend.


...got mad at my husband for falling asleep before me.
...got mad at my husband for waking up AFTER me.
...got mad at my husband for sleeping more soundly than me.


...sounded SO MUCH like my mother.

...started a conversation about poop.
...joined a conversation about poop.
...one-upped a conversation about poop.


How has parenthood changed you?

Friday, February 10, 2012

Father Teaches Daughter Lesson About Facebook

Do you agree with this father's actions? 





What do you think his daughter really learned from this?

We're Getting Fish.

John bought a 29 gallon fish tank and stand during the holidays and chose Superbowl Sunday to set it up...in the office. So instead of having the Exercycle of Doom behind me in webcam pictures, you'll see a tank of iddle fishies...whenever we get them. Right now it's just filled with 29 gallons of tub water.
What he's got so far:  (L to R) Tropical Coral Thing, The Castle at Rohan and the Fires Of Mordor.
John is famous for starting this stuff and then getting frustrated halfway through it and cracking or breaking something. He's also great at using tools that are not meant for the task...like his fists.
Nevertheless, this is gonna be solely his thing (heh, see what I did there?).  I'm only here to figure out the electricity issues: How long an extension cord we'll need and where to plug it in. 
I'll also be in charge of reporting the deaths.  
I may get a clipboard.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Woo-Hoo! Free stuff!!

Yesterday I won the lottery!  Okay, I didn't really, but it sure seemed like it.  I brought in the mail and discovered that my friends at Amsterdam Printing had sent me a new pen. I have a thing for pens anyway, but I have a serious thing for THEIR pens.  (I'd like to think it's become more of a relationship than just a thing now, but until I get that official Facebook notice I'll remain in Crazy Stalker Mode.) 

My pulse quickened when I saw their name on the shrink-wrapped envelope and felt by its weight that there was more inside than just a friendly little hello-please-buy-our-stuff-oh-and-here's-a-catalog thing.  

I opened it like a kid looking for the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, and I mean the old school Cracker Jacks, not the new ones with a 2"x2" paper booklet that you have to be superbly skilled in the art of Origami to use.


Stupid shrink wrap.  Can't.  Open.  Fast enough!  
*squee*  
"There IS a pen in there!  Ooh, which one is it?!"

Now, the folks at Amsterdam know that I love their Manor Pen.  I got a sample of one once and somehow managed to break the dang-blasted thing in half.  I wrote them about this and, being the awesome people they are, they sent me a few new ones to replace the one I had apparently used so hard and so much in my fevered list-making frenzy that it cracked under the pressure.  


This new pen they sent was called the Entice Pen.  It's even been engraved with my first name (and my zip code for some reason). 
Hm, what?  Why yes, I DO have a picture:
Second from the left in "graphite" - smokin' hawt stylus!
  

I.  Love.  It.  
I'm totally cheating on my Manor Pen with this one, but...well...it's got my NAME on it, you know?  That's got to make it okay.  


I wonder if I could get the peeps at Amsterdam to tattoo Random Ninja on something...

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Does This Vagina Make My Van Look Hot?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about truck testicles. 
Let me try that again.
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about blogging about truck testicles.

There's a father in the pick-up/drop-off queue at my girls' elementary school who has an enormous set of chrome-covered balls swinging from his bumper hitch.  I've seen some interesting car accessories in my time. Remember the car bra?  (What was that supposed to lift and/or separate, anyway?)  Recently, I've seen people put eyelashes on Volkswagon Beetles to make the headlights look like eyes.  Interesting, yes, but the truck nuts phenomenon got me wondering, so I started to do a bit of research on this latest (but far from greatest) fad in vehicular personification and I found a guy who makes them on Facebook.  Our conversation went pretty much like this:

Me: So...about those bumper hitch balls...just...WHY??

Ball Guy: Why not ?
Ball Guy: It is a novelty product, we sell them to make a profit. We need the income to pay our bills and cover payroll. Literally hundreds of people have jobs within our industry and dealer program, within the U.S. alone not to mention our dealers in many countries.

Me:  I'm trying to do a little research on this...do you also make a vulva design? 

Ball Guy: No, we get that and breasts request a lot, over the years, however it mostly asked by people who are ignorant of the connotation "he has balls" and what that means.

Me: I know what it means. I also know what the phrase "what a C***" means, but I've never seen one on a bumper hitch.
Me: I don't necessarily want to have a vadge on my van. I'm just saying it should be an equal opportunity thing. Don't you agree?  
 
Ball Guy:  Sure, so go google and search vulva and/or breasts on a truck, find the right company for you and buy and install them. I'm just saying we don't do them, just balls...

Me: No one makes them. Apparently it's not marketable to have a replica of your vulva suspended from the bumper. That's why I thought I'd ask you. Wouldn't you want your daughter to be able to express herself in the same way as any guy who wanted to tout his enormous set at unsuspecting motorists? Think of the children, man.

Ball Guy: So here is your opportunity, start your own company, do something for the children!
 
Me: But...now I'm left wondering if it would be better to make them customizable in different sizes, shapes and whatnot or just have one basic Chaka-Khan "I am every woman" sort of thing.  It can't be any more difficult for my children's classmates to unsee Soccer Mom's kitty swinging behind the van than it is for us to unsee the balls on their dad's truck, can it?


And with that...he left me hanging.   I went back a few days later to find that Ball Guy had deleted the entire conversation from his page.  When I asked why, he said that my last comment was "a little blue and out of line".  

BLUE and out of line?  Really?  Dude, you sell bumper nuts!


Where was I going with this?  Oh, right:
If one day you pull up behind a vulva on a Volvo you just might have me to thank for it.
Possible slogon:  Bumper Vagina.  Bumper vagina?!  I hardly know 'er vagin...ah, forget it.  Too easy.
Ball Dude has since stopped replying and I don't think we are on facebooking terms anymore, so I won't mention his name or even link you to his website.  I know you wanted to put a nice big fleshy set of danglers on your eyelash-clad, bra-wearing Volkswagon and call it The Dragster, but you're on your own with that, chief. 
Sorry. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

She did it again!

Our winter holidays started out as normally as they could have, considering who we are.  We had our annual dinner and gift exchange at the in-laws' after church on Christmas Eve, which is always a great time; dinner was wonderful, conversation was even better and there was wine.  Yay, MOSCATO!

It seems like every holiday, something happens that I simply MUST write about because...(because I'm an obsessive over-sharing maniac) because I'm a blogger.  Sharing the mundane stuff like this is my life, my passion. 

This year, Christmas was full of blog-worthy stuffs to relay to you, gentle reader.  Sadly, the majority of it was lost on Christmas morning because that is when tragedy struck.

I'm getting ahead of myself (again).


A Holiday On Hold
The girls each got a new pair of warm, fuzzy, stay-at-home-socks in their Christmas stockings from jolly old Saint Nicholas.  They love All Things Soft and Fluffy, so of course they put them on immediately.   This is important.  Trust me.

After the last present was opened, the plan was for the kids and The Man to clean up the mess from Unwrapaganza while I started a lovely Christmas breakfast for everyone. That plan was rudely interrupted when I heard Lily yell something that derailed our lazy Christmas morning and sent it careening off into a ditch:

"MOM!  SAM GOT A SPLINTER!!"

Sam ran through the dining room in the slippery wood-collecting-socks that evil bastard brought for her and when she skidded to a stop, yes indeed, Sam...got a splinter.  

If you are a regular reader of my family's tales, you will remember that this has happened before.  Many of you are already aware that I have a child who is a magnet for splinters and when she gets one, she doesn't mess around with the tiny stuff that can be gotten out with a simple tweezers or the aid of a needle.  No way, no how!  When Samantha does it, she goes all out - sliding across the hard-wood floors, yards at a stretch, to see just how much flooring she can strip off in one go.  "FIND ALL THE SPLINTERS!" she cries.  She also gets these enormous planks embedded so deeply and so securely into her skin that it requires medical attention to retrieve them.  THIS was one of those times. 

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it.
After last year's ordeal (which I will link again, because it's just that incredible), we knew not to waste any time waiting for an army of white corpuscles to stop what they were doing and meander over to the foreign body that had taken refuge in the sole of her foot, for she was likely to lose the entire appendage by the time they cooperated enough to force the splinter out.  It was time to get dressed and head to the Convenient Care Clinic.  *nodding*  No Post-Gift Exchange Nap for you, Johnny-Boy.  No waking up to the smell of maple bacon crisping in the oven.  Coats on, everybody!  Let's move out!

The Waiting is the hardest part

We got to the Convenient Care Clinic, checked Samantha in and began to wait.

And wait...


And wait...
Three bored children, two parents, one large plank of wood didn't make for a very merry Christmas.  At least we were all together...irritated, but together.



Soon...(what am I saying? Strike that...) After waiting roughly the same amount of time it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey, we were shown to a room where a nurse got the skinny on Sam's allergies (or lack thereof), and a brief run-down of how she came to have a hunk of petrified oak jammed inside her person.  When she had enough information, we were then told to follow her to the next room and you'll never guess what happened there!

Aw, you guessed it: more waiting.


So we snapped a picture of the adorable six-year-old's foot to kill some time:
*pffft* Well, that took all of thirty seconds.  What do we do now?

As if sensing my boredom...irritability...and general impatience that this was taking SO LONG, the more mobile members of Sam's entourage began to play a nifty little game called "TOUCH EVERYTHING!!!"  Fun stuff, that game.   It's guaranteed to make your mother go abso-fricking-lutely insane in a matter of minutes. 

Just when we were sure they had forgotten about us (I have no idea how that was possible, as we are noisy and were cordoned off from the rest of the office by only a curtain), in walked the doctor who would surely save Sam from the stabbing pain of Pinocchio Syndrome and us from the agonizing wait. 

He took one look at it and said, sounding much like Gary Cole in Office Space: "Mm...yeah, I think we're going to have to go ahead and, uh...numb that."  Well, gee, Bill, do you think so?  I mean, look at it.  There's nothing to grab on to.  Any fool can see that we're going to have to go in after it and one of us may not come out alive.  If you want to try that on a frightened six-year-old without Novocaine, be my guest.  Just use your Jedi mind trick and we'll be on our way.  Moron.

Instead of using The Force, we (Dr. Bill and I) opted to put a topical numbing agent on it so the needle wouldn't be as traumatizing to my six-year-old.  Add fifteen more minutes of waiting, this time with Mommy sporting a pair of purple surgical gloves to apply some jelly textured numb-making stuffs to Sam's foot with "gentle PRESSURE" (*sigh*  Poor Sam), follow that with Dr. Bill shooting Novocaine into the entry point, and we were ready to begin. ("BEGIN?!" WTH?!)   He made a few futile attempts to grab the splinter, but found he was unable to get a good grip on it with the smallest hemostat he had, so after all this time, Good Doctor Nimble Fingers couldn't get the splinter out and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.
Damn.  This rivaled last year's splinterectomy debacle in a big, sad way.

At the ER
I am happy to report that after another hour of waiting , an ultrasound on Samantha's foot, two near-fistfights between the Tired and the Hungry, and about a thousand mobile status updates to Facebook, Sam was once again, splinter free.   HALLELUJAH!  

Holy crap!
































By this time, we were an hour late for dinner at my mother's house, so we gathered up Sam, the splinter and the rest of our clan and headed for Nana and Poppa's house, stopping ever-so-briefly at home to grab the presents and the makings of my contribution to our meal (thank God I didn't have to make anything more complex than green bean casserole).

We'll call this next part "Splinter At Large"
When we finally got to my parents' house, Sam immediately wanted to show the splinter to her cousins.  Now, after the morning's ordeal, we didn't expect her to actually take the splinter OUT  to show it off and we sure as hell didn't expect the splinter to make a break for it, but that's what happened.  When she opened the container, it fell.   It fell near(?)...under(?)...IN(?)...the cushions of the couch.  It was lost.  Oh, damn.  That's at least a hundred dollar splinter (and probably more, as we have yet to receive the bill from the ER).  We wanted to keep it and put it in our shadow box of "Stuff that got stuck in our kids".  Shoot.  Now it's gone.  Bummer.

Was Lost But Now Am Found
I went to my parent's house the day after Christmas to have coffee and in a last-ditch effort, searched the couch cushions once more, to see if I could find that blasted splinter.  I picked up a cushion and clapped it once and the splinter fell onto the couch.
*THUD*
Me:  No. Freaking. Way.  I FOUND IT!  QUICK!  DAD, GET THE BOTTLE!  GET THE BOTTLE!  
My Father: Where is it?
Me:  It's still in my purse!
My Father:  Don't move!  I'm on it!

And so we wrangled that splinter into the bottle and closed it up tight. REALLY TIGHT.

That oughta hold it.




 Once again, the world is safe for Samantha's tender feet.  Sort of. 


We're getting carpet this spring.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Anatomy of an Argument...For Underachievers

John and I rarely fight, but when we do, this is pretty much what happens.

Him: "Oh, look! A CD on the floor. No case! That's real nice. That's the way to take care of things!" Me: "Here, hon. Why don't you take it and put it away?"
Him: "Well, I didn't leave it on the floor!"
Me: "Do you want to put it away or do you want to bitch about where it ended up because you didn't put it away in the first place?"
Him: "I want people to put things away where they belong."
Me: "Okay then. I'm not the only person who can do that. Here." *hands him CD, which he takes and drops down on the desk*
Me: "Asshole."
Him: "You're the asshole." *stomp stomp stomp* 
Wait three minutes...he returns.
Him: "Guess what temperature the thermostat is set at."
Me: "69."
Him: "Yup. 69 Degrees."
Me: "Awesome."
Him: "Sixty. Nine."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Degrees."
What.  That's a serious argument, yo.  
 
Side note: He just came in to the bathroom while I was taking a shower, opened the curtain (I lipread, remember) and said..."Bass... *plays music on pretend guitar*...Bass... *pretends to catch Walter from On Golden Pond*...*shrugs shoulders*  Why??"
And when I looked at him like he had three heads, he hugged me THROUGH the shower curtain.  
He's ALL mine, ladies.  Mine.
 

Monday, January 9, 2012

The Year Grandma Stopped Loving You

During our Christmas Eve gift exchange, my sister-in-law pointed out the tag on her gift, saying: "To Jennie.  Mom and Dad".  No "Love, Mom and Dad?"  Really?  *quietly*  I used to be your favorite...

This caused our evening to take a most entertaining turn.  We were no longer so curious to find out what we'd been given, but much more intent to find out whether or not it was given "with love".  It became the mission of one and all to answer the question "Where's the love?" as we hungrily tore through the gifts from my mother and father-in-law to see how our cards were signed and find out whether or not we, too, were among The Beloved.

We used that one piece of hilarity to propel us through the rest of the night.

I'm happy to report that every one of the grandchildren got the coveted Golden Ticket of "Love, Grandma and Grandpa".

All adults in the room were gifted with a lukewarm "Mom and Dad".

This will make next year very interesting as it seems everyone's back in the running for Favorite.  It's so gonna be ME!

Some Other Stuff I Wrote