No Shave November?

A friend told me I needed to post something on my blog.  I don't know what made me happier; that anyone still checks to see if I've posted, or that they actually want to read what I wrote.  Either way, it made me smile and I figured I'd better hop to!

The biggest news?  Hubby is currently attempting a mustache.  Please use all your powers of persuasion to discourage this activity next time you cross his path.  Because, of course, I have to continue to tell him he's hot and sexy, but seriously people, there is nothing remotely hot or sexy about a Victorianesque 'stache.  I beg you, help a girl out!

In other news, I have some quotes for you.  It's a small list, but it's all I got.

LM: "Mom, you don't need to worry-- you have a fully trained ninja in the family."
(Well, I hadn't been worried, but now...I might be.)

LM: (as relayed to me by his teacher) "Mrs. B, can I talk to you?"
Mrs. B: "Sure, what's up?"
LM: "You shouldn't be very hard on me if I misbehave today-- I have tight underwear on."
(He has a point there....)

LM: "Mom, I wish you would move your big butt!"
Me: "That's not very nice."
LM: (softening his tone) "Well, it is big, and it is a butt, so...."
(Aspies...so literal.)

Hubby: (asleep)  "...it became kind of punchy and...overwhelming."
(One teeny-tiny sleep-talking quote here or there won't hurt-- right?)

LM: (watching a movie with me) "Did he just say a cuss word?"
Me: "No, 'damsel' just means girl."
LM: "Oh!  So how do you say boy in cuss words?"
(Dam...oh, nevermind.)

Me: (yelling to the basement where hubby was) "Did you already feed the dog?"
Hubby: "Yes!"
Me: "She's trying to convince me otherwise."
Hubby: "Well, tell her I said no!"
Me: (looking down at the dog) "Ummm, he said no."
(She still wasn't buying it.)

I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving!  Thanks for reading!  :)

Party Pooper

I'm only sharing this story because I've heard my son retell it twice already, and the way he tells it...well, let's just say that I have some splainin' to do.

I was in the bathroom.  (Don't all good stories start out this way?)  Anyway, I was in the bathroom, and it's rather integral that I tell you I was engaged in the business of #2.  Sorry-- just try not to picture it.  (Although, I do make a lovely figure on the pot.)

So there I was, finishing up, when I heard a yell coming from the living room.  It was Ruby, and I knew something was seriously amiss.  She had a breathless quality to her tone that indicated a certain amount of franticness.  

"Mom?  Mom?!  MOM!"

I poked my head out of the bathroom door and answered, hoping that I could easily solve the problem and get back to the business at hand.

"What's wrong with Carson?  What's wrong with her?!" Ruby gasped.

Oh, gosh.  The dog.  Did she keel over or something?  I couldn't see a dang thing, stuck on the john and all.

"What's she doing?" I asked, still calm.  One thing you should know about me is I'm an under-reactor in trauma situations.  I would almost say that I'm the perfect person to have with you in an emergency except for the fact that the very definition of under-reacting is evidence to the contrary.

"I don't know what she's doing!  I can't find her!" Ruby yells back, voice cracking.  LM begins to bawl.

Oooookaaaaaay.  At this point I'm at a loss.  Clearly my children are in a state of real crisis, but they are unable to tell me what is happening-- in fact, they are unable to even tell me IF anything is happening at all.  

"If you can't see her, how do you know something is wrong with her?" I holler out the door.  By now the kids are both gasping for air they're bawling so hard.  I'm beginning to realize my time in the bathroom will be cut unfortunately short.

"I heard her yelping!" comes the shrieking reply.

Well, this I can work with.  This is evidence!  Evidence that something indeed is wrong!  I hopped off the throne and jumped into action-- pants pooled around my ankles.  I searched all of the dog's known hangouts.  Meanwhile, the kids are in helpless, blathering heaps on the living room floor, sure that their beloved pet is dying in some hidden corner of the house.  I finally find the dog.  She's rolling on LM's bedroom carpet downstairs.  She's wagging her tail, having a grand ol' time, oblivious to the commotion upstairs.  

I went back upstairs to finish my business.

Why tell you all this?  Because my son is probably going to share with you that his mother went on a partially clothed doghunt sans proper wiping.  How do I know he'll say this?  Because he's already informed two of his little friends and his father.  But I DID wipe-- I did!  Don't believe that kid!  Remember, he was the one who was insisting our idiot dog was croaking when in fact she was having a heyday down on the berber.  Clearly he gets his facts confused.  

And, I washed my hands, too.  I'm a wiper and a washer.

Stupid dog....