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- Participate in a wet t-shirt contest. Gave the dog a bath.
- Get drunk off my ass. Had a hard cider, fell asleep. Snored.
- Take illicit drugs. Administered painkillers to the dog, who got her girl parts removed.
- Have wild, anonymous sex. None of your business.
Matthew: “Yeah, he was probably having a pretty boring day until some nutjob calls up, ‘I need rocks to sharpen needles!’”
Me: “I’m not a nutjob!”
On my way home from class today, I stopped by the Manassas School of Dance and enrolled Rebecca in Ballet I. Drove home, unloaded the groceries from Costco (I was so well behaved, I only got milk and eggs and butter and half-and-half), nursed Madeline, and then threw everyone back into the car to get Becca her uniform leotard and tights and ballet shoes, oh my!
I do not think that there is a way to remove the pink stain from my soul. The dancewear shop… so… pink. And frilly. And full of pointe shoes and tutus and little girls’ dreams and satin ribbons, oh my dear God!
I am bad, I am very bad. Every time I hear about General Petraeus, I think, “Doctor Zaius!”.
After a brief (very brief) discussion of how pearls are made:
Rebecca: So people who wear pearls are wearing oyster spit?
Me: Yes…
Rebecca: So why did you make Aunt Maryanne a pearl necklace?
Matthew, on Alone in the Dark: “It’s like somebody died in the middle of production, and they lost the script, and they just kept shooting and shooting and then went, ‘Oh, crap, we have to make a movie out of this’.”
WANT
Marcus, regarding his fried SPAM sandwich: “Mom, this is delicious! It’s like it was in a marinade!”
Me: “Oh, God.”
Marcus, while reading off movie titles while we were all in the throes of the flu: “The Fear of All Sums.”
Matthew: “Noooo, not 2+2!”
After a very long day full of annoyances and disappointments, Marcus was rather cranky. He and Becca got into a row over toys, and I sent them both downstairs to undress for their bath — only by then, Marcus was so grumpy that he didn’t want a bath.
“No! I do not want a bath! I want to go to bed dirty,” he screamed as I carried him down the stairs. Not taking a bath was out of the question, as in the course of the afternoon he had played in the muddy backyard until it began raining again.
“No! I hate getting wet! I want my clothes on! You are a bad mother!,” he cried as I undressed him and lifted him (not a mean feat when he’s throwing a tantrum) into the tub where Becca was already arranging shampoo bottles.
“No! No! No! No! No!,” he fussed as I turned on the water.
“It is too hot! It is too cold! It is wet! I have soap in my eyes! I want a new mother!,” he complained vociferously as I bathed him. Becca had no complaints.
“I want cavities! I hate clean teeth! Mmph mmmph mmph!,” he screamed, even as he opened his mouth to let me brush his molars.
It was quite a tantrum, and it just kept getting sillier and more ridiculous as he went through his paces.