National Lame Egg Joke Day

I don’t know what got into me, maybe the stress of this wedding thing and Nick’s gall bladder.  Who knows.

When my youngest was making eggs she accidentally got a piece of shell in the pan and asked for my help.  I got it out carefully with a spoon and said

I’m an eggspert.

Lame, lame, lame.  And that’s what her face told me she thought too.  Then I said

I made a yolk.

And still it wouldn’t stop.  It was horrifying.

I made two!  It’s a double yolk.

And that makes three.  And I am no longer allowed to speak outloud.  So I came to blog it instead.

I lost the Code Book

I am not afraid to post my idiocy on the internet.  I feel like we can all share moments of idiocy and laughingly bond over them, or perhaps you’re all just laughing at me.  That’s okay too.

I bought a daily planner to carry around because when I make appointments while I’m sitting in someone’s office I can see my wall calendar in my head, but then I forget to write the appointment down when I get home, and it’s becoming harder and harder to carry all that information in my head.  I can blame it on the girls having more and more to do, but really I have less and less free space in my hard drive.

So I was looking at my planner for next week and on Friday it says “9 a.m. Session.”

Obviously this is code for something I didn’t want someone to find if they opened my planner and flipped to this page.  Not that anyone cares about all the therapy and dentist appointments and my mammogram next week.  Session is code for something.  But I’ve lost the code book because I have no idea what it means!

It could mean I have to work.  It could mean I have to go to therapy.  It could mean I’m getting a massage.  Or a waxing.  Or I’m meeting Johnny Depp.  Or Johnny Depp is waxing me.  I just don’t even know what I’d need a code word for, as I don’t do anything all that exciting.  It probably means take out the trash and unplug the toilet, but if I had to schedule it at least three weeks in advance (which is the last time I opened my planner–oops) I would hope it’s not the toilet cause that’s gross.

So if anyone would tell me where I’m supposed to be on the 12th at 9:00 I would really appreciate it.  In my head I can hear a person asking me if 9:00 is a good time for our really important meeting, but I can’t remember who.  Next time I write something in there I have to remember that the me who is writing it down may be 26, but the me who finds it three weeks later has the memory span of an 82 year old with Attention Deficit Disorder and a drinking problem.

Many Random but Important Events That must be connected Somehow

Today I got the birthday present I bought myself through the mail. I am now feeling supported and separated, lifted and somehow thinner. Is this really where the boobs are supposed to be? I keep hitting my chin on them and I can definitely see the six pack of small rolls where my abs should be but aren’t. When not dragging against my knees they look really HUGE. I am so amazed that I keep looking down and then feeling them, cause I can’t quite believe they’re mine.

I took Haley to Dartmouth yesterday where her doctor (who I LOVE) thought there’s a good chance most of her issues are caused by a sleep disorder. So she filled out the paperwork (one piece of paper) for a referral to the sleep clinic to at least rule this out before we go the ADHD route. She said that when she faxes these down to the sleep people they somehow lose them and so she wanted us to walk it down (2 buildings over and 3 floors down) and hand it to them in person. When we found the sleep clinic all the doors were shut and because it’s a small city I finally decided to enter the business office.

The three women who were sitting there chatting were AGHAST that I would walk in. They spoke ANGRY INTEROFFICE language at me that sounded something like “You can’t hand this to us! You have to send it by interoffice doctor transportalator facsimile machination” and each one looked up at the sky (or ceiling) like whatever it was lived above us. So maybe they meant I had to talk to God first, and when I refused and said “The doctor said to walk it down here and hand it to you” they were even more AGHAST that I would refuse to bow down and worship this thing they so feared and revered. “The doctors keep doing this to us, instead of using the interoffice doctor transportalator facsimile machination,” they said to me so that I would be on their side of the interoffice schism. And maybe I was or maybe I wasn’t, I didn’t really care as long as the paper got to where it was going.

Then they just looked at me like I should apologize for bring this nasty piece of paper to them. I turned to the one nearest me and asked politely “I have no idea what you are talking about, but can you please get this to where it’s supposed to be.”

She took it from me and said that she would fax it upstairs so that it would be faxed back down to her, the way things are supposed to work in the hospital. If this order was not kept apparently the whole system would fall apart. I don’t doubt that she made a paper airplane out of it and threw it down the elevator shaft after I left. And I now realize that she may have been merely following the Pathetics on the Way to Gof, in which case I commend her attempt at trying to make me feel like she was doing me a huge favor and as long as the paper made it up to God and back I’m okay with it.

The third thing that happened was what I found when looking back through the history on my laptop to find a walkthrough for LOTR for Emily that she looked at on Thursday. I haven’t seen so many bizarre sites since the days of Joe and Jim in my basement. No, no, no! I wish I’d never seen those pictures. When I was a kid you had no access to these things and now all you have to do is find the five minutes when MOM has locked herself into the bathroom and type Animal Porn into google and there it is!

Can you tell that they’ve been home sick all week and I haven’t had a break since a week ago Friday?

The Cheese Nip that Almost Joined Jesus

Gina was happily eating a bowl of cheesenips next to me last night in my big futon chair, watching Heroes. You know the kind of cheesenip with two flavors in the same box–that kind. Cheesenips are awesome, but you NEVER want to feed me any. Anyway, suddenly she opened her mouth wide in AWE and held out an orange cheesenip in front of her, to see in better in the light from the television. The light shown on the cheesenip and it glowed a powdery orange.

“MOM!” she exclaimed.

And I knew what she was thinking. She had found another crazy piece of highly processed food, created in the weird image of Jesus, or miniature like that flour tortilla, or musical like a carrot, or bumpy like the badly twisted pretzel. She had found a cheesenip that would join Jesus on the holy shelf of all things weird and not to be eaten.

I looked at it. I looked some more. I couldn’t see anything weird about it, except that a corner had broken off, leaving the cheesenip as a rough triangle shape. She flipped it over and over in her hand, until she saw that the edge was indeed ragged and not accidentally shaped that way by an error of the cheesenip manufacturers.

She was SO disappointed. But I laughed and laughed and laughed and then bit the corners off more cheesenips to show her how it’s done. This cheesenip would not be joining Jesus and neither would the others.

She was so offended by my laughter that she then confused herself for a cheesenip and said “But I thought that the Gina was special.”

Yes the Gina is special. The cheesenip is not.

And THIS is why I LOVE my children!

He sent me a care package with several interesting things including this huge spider. He knows me too well. Or maybe we share the same stupid sense of humor. I decided to leave the kids a little surprise when they got up this morning in the middle of the living room floor.

And they must really be my children because instead of shock, outrage, and pathetic crying over the cruel treatment of the beloved puppet they just rearranged the scene better.


I think we’ll all get along just fine.

Handicapped Drunken Pirates

So this article was on MSN today about the 5 SUSPECTED pirates who somehow accidentally thought this hugeass refueling ship was a commercial boat filled with gold bullion. Maybe it’s just me and my adoration of Captain Jack, but you’d have to be really drunk to think a big refueling ship was a happy little trade vessel.
The 5 SUSPECTED pirates in their tiny little row boat, along with another pirate laden skiff, shot their little pop-gun rifles at the GIGANTIC refueling ship. Which means they must have been really really drunk. I mean, what are the bullets going to do, bounce off?
And the absolute worst part of the whole deal? They weren’t just 5 drunken SUSPECTED pirates in a row boat. They were 5 armless drunken SUSPECTED pirates in a row boat who just realized that they accidentally shot the WRONG people. This is what the article said: “There were five suspected pirates on board. No arms, no water, no food,”
Poor pathetic drunken mistaken pirates. After looking at the picture of the HEROIC capture of these powerful villainous handicapped pirates I just want to adopt one.

My conversation with gmail

I was chatting with Abrah on gmail this morning and then SUDDENLY:

Abrah did not receive your chat.
Abrah did not receive your chat.
Abrah did not receive your chat.
me: ack
Abrah did not receive your chat.
Abrah did not receive your chat.
me: Stop not receiving my chat!
Abrah did not receive your chat.
Abrah did not receive your chat.
me: fuck you gmail
Abrah did not receive your chat.
Abrah: LMAOhahhahhahaahhahah
I’m currently receiving your chat
me: well you weren’t