Little thankful: It wasn't my kid

I was in line at the grocery store after work yesterday and heard a small human shrieking and carrying on the next row over. Honestly, I didn't think much of it, because it happens, especially at the end of the day when everyone is tired. The thing that made this one memorable is the teenaged cashier and baggers were standing there smiling and kind of impressed with the level of intensity this kid had achieved. The cashier said, "Man, that kid is MAD!"

And that kid WAS mad. He was having a full-on snotty face, screaming, sweating, boot losing meltdown apparently over one of those little balloons on a stick that says get well. His mom remained calm throughout, which is something I am not sure I could/would have done. As we were exiting the store, I had to stop as she tried to collect kids and clothing items because they were in front of me. She looked at me and all I could do was smile and say, "it happens." And I was so very thankful that mine are big enough that we are past public meltdowns of that caliber.

Little thankful: I was wrong.

Being a woman of a certain age means that I am rarely cold anymore. As a former Girl Scout, I like to be prepared, so I always keep an extra blanket near my bed to grab in the dark if the Universe glitches and I get cold. Last night the temperature outside dropped to single digits and I woke up cold. I removed the cat from my extra blanket and started to snuggle back to sleep, when I realized that I was COLD! My room was COLD! And my furnace was COLD (not running)!

This wasn't a dead people visiting kind of cold, but really cold. As I laid there in the dark, willing myself to get up and call the emergency furnace repair guy, my dragon breathed to life and warm air started blowing through the house. My furnace was not broken! I have never been so happy to be wrong.

Peacock's Ass

Back in the eighties when hair was big and my brain was decidedly teenaged and small, every time I would emerge from the cloud of hairspray that hung like death in the bathroom my dad would exclaim, "Oooh, pretty! Now let's see the peacock's ass."

The first time it happened, I just stood there wondering if he was having a stroke until he explained that peacocks are beautiful when they spread their feathers, but most people have never seen what a peacock's rear end looks like when they make their fabulous display. Imagine how stunned I was that a) my dad was RIGHT about something and b) the back of my hair looked terrible!

I fixed my peacock's ass that day, and every day since. My children have been taught to check their own peacock's ass because, you know, great wisdom must be shared. Due to something that happened at work today, I feel it is time to let the guys in on the big secret.

I was walking down the hall behind a male colleague, and noticed that his hair made him resemble a Royal penguin.

I have no idea what the front looked like, but we warned. Guys need to check their peacock's asses too.

When life hands you . . . oranges?

I have been using Imperfect Produce for a few months, and I really am a fan. The only real problem, and it is more a failing of mine than theirs, is that I forget to log in each week and customize my selection.

These lapses in my memory caused me to have quite a few pieces of citrus that were near the edge of *whipping sound a la HIMYM* Not Good Enough! They were oranges, I think, but honestly am not sure about a few of them. What is that thing in the lower left with a line up it like a peach?! It looked citrusy on the inside, so I used it.

This little mess (as my grandma would have said) of oranges yielded a little less than two cups of juice, which I saved for evening relaxing time and turned into a delicious beverage with the help of a shot of whipped cream flavored vodka.

It was beautiful AND tasty!

On a related note, did you know that blood oranges stain your fingers a dark kind of purple color? I am thinking I may have to experiment with dying wool with blood oranges. 

Today’s thankful: It wasn’t permanently attached

Youngest came into the kitchen while I was doing dishes the other night. She was talking funny, and the mom in me worried that she might be having a stroke. I was able to understand her somewhat garbled speech enough to hear, “Hey, Mom! Look! I have a tongue ring.” In the split second between her uttering that sentence and the moment she stuck out her tongue, my heart stopped a little because she is only seven and I wondered who I was going to have to kill for maiming my baby. Then I saw her tongue. She had put a finger ring around her tongue, not through it. She is trying to kill me. I am more than a little thankful that her ring wasn’t meant for a tongue.

Today’s thankful: She does have a brain and the ability to think

I was having a conversation with Middlest about the latest episode of Duck Dynasty and how Miss Kay was sharing with the grandkids about how she conceived their daddy. The kids were as horrified as you would imagine, and we were laughing about it. Then Youngest asked what conceived meant. I told her, then continued my conversation with Middlest. As many of our conversations do, this one spiraled to the eventual place of me saying how wrong it is to name your kids after where they were conceived. At that point, Youngest said, “like vagina?” After I got done laughing, I told her I was thinking more like Toyota or Dallas. Strictly speaking, though, she was dead on. She may not always get it right, but that girl is a thinker.

Today’s thankful: She didn’t really mean it

I was going through Youngest’s Friday folder and looking through her school papers for the week. They have been doing clubhouse activities lately and had to write about their own dream clubhouse. I always enjoy reading what my babies write, but this one gave me a start. See if you can spot the thing that freaked me the eff out. Youngest’s clubhouse is “huge, sparkily and pink.” No surprise there. Further down the page, “My clubhouse has a chocololite fountin, pizza parlor, plazma grinade, pool, diving board. . .” As my brain screeched to a halt, I silently gathered my wits and asked my tiny girl why she wanted a plasma grenade, because I don’t want to be one of those clueless parents who has no idea her kid is a wacko. Also, and here is the biggie, I had her tested and they said she was fine! Fine people do not want to have plasma grenades anywhere, let alone in their pink sparkly clubhouse! Or maybe they do. I don’t know anymore. Thankfully, she didn’t mean plasma grenade. She meant plasma TV. I cannot even begin to express the magnitude of my relief.