Just call me Picasso
I've decided I'm an emotional masterpiece, because it sounds so much better than unbalanced. I'm like Picasso, but without the wang...and with breasts. And maybe with my eyeballs in the right place.
So I'm like Picasso but BETTER.
Not like a Da Vinci-ette, because let's face it - that guy made sense. I'm more all over the map lately. Creative, emotional, and ACCIDENTAL.
My sons went on a ski trip with their school. They come home absolutely soaked through, so I "empty" their pockets and throw coats and snow pants into the washer...then the dryer. I do the little quotesy things on "empty" because it wasn't as empty as empty should have been. It was less "empty" and more "holy shit, what the Hell is THIS?"
THIS is how you accidentally tie dye two pairs of snow pants and add decorative splotches to winter jackets...with wax crayons. So it's nice and waterproof. And won't come off.
Less Da Vinci and more Picasso, right?
Just HOW Sick are You?
It was Family Dinner Night...for those of you who don't know - this is night when disaster and or hilarity strike in equal measure (usually when I screw something up). However, for once THIS was the exception...HA! Because we didn't even get there.
My brother sent my Mom a text saying they all had Parvovirus or Tuberculosis (or possibly were just sick...I didn't actually read the text) and they couldn't make it to dinner - so they cancelled.
Don't worry, we all blame him. It's what we do.
"Paul says they're sick and can't make it tonight," my Mom announces in the living room.
"Wait! Uncle Paul is sick?" my oldest son asks.
"Did he get too old?"
Oooh the restraint I demonstrate sometimes...you're welcome, Paul.
It Tastes like What?
We recently added a Boston Terrier puppy to our madhouse. By "we" I mean "me" because I just can't get enough of cleaning up puddles of pee and I suffer from...something horribly wrong with me. And if I try to share the blame I will get the hairy eye.
His name is Spock and he is insane. My sons adore him.
"Spock's eating his foot!" Kaelan shrieks happily one morning.
"It's probably itchy," my Mom explains as both boys bounce around the puppy.
"I bet it tastes disgusting," Reece announces as he leans in to inspect the action.
"It probably tastes like chicken. Everything tastes like chicken," I tell them.
"I bet that's it," my Mom agrees.
"Or dork. Most likely it tastes like dork," I suggest.
Just a guess.