I Heart Complications and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• I think my bloggy mojo has been compromised yet again, but nobody wants to hear about how someone else’s brain just stopped working properly, especially that one reader who dropped me over the course of the weekend (how could you?) and in the spirit of not losing anyone else who might be on the fence I will stop my whine. Here.
  
• No. Here. Waaaaaaaaaaah.
  
• Work with me randomness. Maybe if you really, really believe, the randomness will come.
  
• Dammit, people, I cannot pull this off by myself.
  
• So my lovely teenage daughter has become a serial puker. Having a full lunch in the school cafeteria + sitting next to a certain boy on the bus ride home = copious amounts of vomit. It’s a little heart breaking. I always had a nervous stomach growing up, I mostly still do, but it manifests itself in other *ahem* ways. So what once started off as butterflies in her tummy has evolved in to something approximately the size of a pterodactyl, and I think this is increased exponentially by her fear that if she barfed once she will likely barf again. Thus far it has been a proven theory. It does not help that Busboy officially has a girlfriend and their affectionate displays are putting little anguish fissures in her tough exterior shell.
  
• Anyone have any tips on how to keep your cookies down?
  
• We went slightly insane over the weekend and added three more pets to our already crowded home. We promised our tween daughter and seven year old son, they could get pets if certain criteria were met, which they were. Our daughter wanted a mammal, possibly a guinea pig and our son had his heart set on a reptile. While we weren’t 100% ready to actually commit yet, we knew the acquisition was inevitable, then we got an unexpected call that someone was looking to ditch their pigs on account that their children had completely lost interest in them. They were being given free to a good home. With supplies. Minus the cage which the owner wanted to keep for…ready for this? Chickens. So we bought a fairly large cage and brought two fat guinea pigs home. I’m pretty sure they hate each other. They spend a lot of time clicking at one another, which in guinea pig apparently means “Back the hell up or I will cut you.” They are very cute and no one is more interested in their habits than the dogs, who frequently sidle up to the cage in a highly agitated state drooling and ready to pounce. Predator meet prey. Yes, we are full of bright ideas.
  
• We also got a corn snake, which not surprisingly is a pretty easy pet to own. If you don’t mind keeping frozen mice in your freezer and thawing them out in warm water once a week for your reptile to ingest whole.
  
• Some photos:
• 
  
• Helpful tip of the week: If you feel inclined to make a quick run to the grocery store in your sloppiest, loosest fitting, bloaty pants and hang-around-the-house-flip-flops, at least make an effort to apply make-up, because you will always run in to someone you know who looks far more put together than you.
  
• You’re welcome.
  

—–

The Un-Mom has her act together. Even if she doesn’t, I’m sure she’s much better at faking it than I am.

So You Wanna Write Something…

It’s because you’re feeling crazy isn’t it? Don’t worry, that’s just the Meth talking. I’m kidding. It’s those creative juices burbling all underneath your cranium. Plug a spout in to your forehead and drain that sticky syrup on to the page, but first you’ve got to be equipped with the proper tools, instruments, and at-MOS-phere. Otherwise? Otherwise, why bother? Genius will never come. You might get a few drops of something sweet, but not enough to cover your hotcakes in, if you know what I mean?

1. First, sit at your desk, preferably a heavy mahogany roll top, with one of those high end ergonomic chairs that cradle you like the palm of a hand. I don’t mean like one of those creepy retro five fingered chairs either, that will never do. I’m talking extravagant, a chair that will lovingly hold you while you spew your masterpiece in a single sitting. That thing in the corner covered in cookie crumbs and chocolate milk stains is so not a desk, it’s an abomination. It’s cardboard and glue with casters nailed to the bottom, no wonder you’re not coming up with anything good. Fine. The dinner table is fine. Yes, a dining chair is preferable to that dangerously leaning monstrosity that keeps rolling out from under you. I’m just not certain the curvature of your spine is conducive to literary brilliance.
   
2. Do you have a fountain pen? One of those old Underwood typewriters? No, no, not to write with, that would be extremely impractical. You just need one to set next to your laptop to provide mood and the proper amount of IN-spiration. It works. I’m fairly certain. But why are there so many damn ponytail holders on your dinner table? You don’t actually eat here do you? Did someone carve their initials on that corner?
   
3. So yes! Your laptop is open, there’s a blank page awaiting your masterful artistry, those QWERTY keys are humming with potential. Now is your chance. Now. Wait. There are children in this house? That changes everything.
   
4. So here we are. Predawn. Your mind is fresh and brimming with ideas and possibilities. Stop yawning, dammit. So the ideas blablabla. Sit down at the table. The computer is on. The house is blissfully silent, except for the A/C which is really more than a little distracting. Is it always that loud? You might want to get that checked. I hope it’s under warranty. Your dog is snoring too, isn’t it?
   
5. Okay, you’ll need ear buds and the appropriate mood music. You’re writing to your own soundtrack, the soundtrack of your life. It will power your muse, imagine him swaying to the rhythm of…Seriously?! You couldn’t have just charged the flapping thing last night. You knew you were gonna need it today!
   
6. Music – check. Laptop – check. Genius – close enough. No, no, no, do NOT check your email. Don’t log on. I mean it. Don’t do it, not now, it’s just going to…
   
7. Listen, responding to your sister-in-law’s vapid email about how fond her tween is of shoes and outlet shopping, does not qualify as writing. Are you serious about this or not?
   
8. Great. Now the kids are up. Well, go make some toast or something. Whatever. I don’t care anymore.
   
9. Look! Most of the children are out of the house. That’s a total score for you. That little one can watch Dora for an hour or two while you…Lego Batman? You’re going to spend your morning playing Lego Batman? What is wrong with you?
   
10. How many cookies can one woman eat in a day? It’s frying your brain, you know? Processed sugar and video games. Fried. Abso-flipping-lutely fried. I’d be depressed too..
    
11. Huh? Nah, I’m good. Just finishing your crossword for you.
    
12. Yes! The kids are in bed, the house is sort of quiet, and hey! it looks almost clean in the dark. Let’s slap something together for the love of Pete. A fragging limerick. Seriously. It doesn’t matter at this point. You just had to cover the same kid 17 times with a dinosaur blanket and I think you have a piece of fried egg in your hair. Whatever you come up with a this point is FINE.
    
13. A blog post? Really? Next time just write a grocery list, it’ll be more relevant.

Hello Piggies and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• After getting out of the shower yesterday, a certain three year old demanded my attention.
  

  “MOOOOOOM! Grab my fingers.” He was poking his tiny digits underneath the gap in the door. Using his hand to cross over in to my brief sanctum and give a little wave.
  

  “I’ll be right out,” I assured him.
  

  After I exited he claimed my bare toes and gave me his version of “This little piggy…”
  

  “This little piggy was a caca. This little piggy had roast beast. This little piggy got hurt by a truck then fell off a building. This little piggy said wee-wee all the way home. And then the baby piggy had roast beast with the mommy piggy and a big daddy piggy that destroy the house.”
  

• ?????
  
• I made the mistake of feeding some ducks the other day in front of my house. They were eating bread right out of my hand, it was a sweet moment. Not so sweet is the fact that they’ve come back six times to hover near my front door and poop all over my entryway. Runny duck landmines I have to train my three year old to dodge and avoid while I raise my arms over my head and try to shoo away my new best buds that coincidentally have little fear and practically want to walk in to my living room. If ever you are inclined to feed your neighborhood ducks, DON’T.
  
• Several evenings ago at dinner, Journey came on the radio and my husband mentioned that one of his girlfriends in high school used to play them all the time while they were dating. I volunteered a similar experience which led to my enthusiastic dislike of the band in spite of the fact that I know most of the lyrics to their greatest hits album which can cause me to involuntarily break out in song when “Wheel in the Sky” begins playing. My teen was at the table with us when the strangest look came on her face,
  

“OMG I just realized you guys haven’t always been together, you don’t have all the same memories, you used to have separate lives.”

“Well, we’re not brother and sister, you know?”

“I know but it’s too weird.”

“Yeah, we used to be teenagers just like you and go to football games and concerts and South Beach and we went to high school in totally different parts of the city.”

“Ugh. I feel nauseous.”

What do you know? Parents were once people too…

• During the holidays I bought an US magazine subscription for $1 from an offer I got after purchasing some gifts through Amazon. I figured a buck for celebrity smut, why not? I recycle. I just received my last issue yesterday, if I renew now I can save 70%. For the record, US magazine might be the dumbest magazine I’ve ever read, it’s all celebrity pictures and blurbs and stupid polls about who looks better in an overpriced dress. I feel stupider every time I read it. That being said, it’s like magazine crack. I’m cutting myself off…yet how am I going to live without knowing how the Jon and Kate custody battle turns out or whether or not Justin and Cameron will get back together?
  
• Excuse me while I go burn some back issues of US and go wash my eyeballs.
  
• Yesterday afternoon I received a package in the mail. From Hawaii! It was filled with delicious goodies I won from contest over at Pseudo’s. I’m fairly certain everything in it is low cal. Come on, dark chocolate covered macadamia nuts, those have to be healthy right? If I can’t button my pants anymore I am blaming her.
  

• This kid decided to Bogart all the macadamia nut cookies too but I managed to rescue one (or five) from his clutches.
  

• All the rage for viewers age seven to eleven: it’s called Annoying Orange and is quite possibly even more brain gratingly annoying than Fred. If you don’t know who Fred is, be grateful.

—–

You know who isn’t annoying? The Unmom. 9 out of 10 bloggy readers agree. That 10^th reader prefers talking fruit.

Kiss Me I’m a Hero

 

My seven year old has been a dinosaur guy since he was in diapers, but my youngest…he loves a superhero.

Not just the ones with fantastic powers either, but the regular guys that accomplish astonishing feats – battling the bad guys, rescuing the ladies, being proficient with a bullwhip.

Indy is by far his favorite. He sings the Indiana Jones theme song whenever he’s feeling adventurous. When he’s not, when he’s bordering on a tantrum or in full blown atomic meltdown mode, the first thing he’ll tell me is, “I am NOT Indiana Jones anymore. Wah!”

Lately he’s taken to adopting a Spiderman persona as well, shooting webs out of two extended index fingers and insisting on calling me Mary Jane.

The games can get a little old, especially when I have to be the bad guy.

“You be the guy with the green shirt.”

“You mean the Sandman?”

“NO! The bad guy with the green shirt.”

“Uhm. Okay, sure. I’m going to get you Spiderman, you’re in trouble now. You are no match for my bad guy powers. I will…”

“I shoot my web at you. Zip zip zip. Now you freeze. You are stuck in my web. Get down.”

Game over.

He also has a ritual for occupational hazards.

“Mommy, I hurt myself right here!”

“Where? Show me.”

He points to an invisible spot somewhere on his elbow. Occasionally there will be a scratch or a bump but often there is nothing to see.

“Rub it.”

Rubrubrub.

“Kiss it.”

Okay. Kisskisskiss.

He wipes at his eyes with the palms of his hands and then you hear it.

♪♫ duh duh duh duh duh duh duh ♪♫

He’s fine.

He also understands that the hero always gets the girl.

“Okay, Mary Jane, now I kiss you.”

Except this kiss involves putting his hands on my forehead and cheek, then rotating my head to the right so he can plant a wet one on my face, after which he will clean his lips with the back of his hand.

For some reason he understands locking lips is reserved for the truly special girls.

“Mommy, I want to kiss Dora (the Explorer) on the lips.”

I have to worry a little about his taste in women though.

Are You Saying Words? Spin Cycle

Sometimes I am not the most articulate person in the world.

Words trip me up. I mumble, I stammer, I transpose letters and syllables. I’m redundant. My brain works faster than my mouth and as a result, the words that sounded perfectly reasonable, perhaps even clever, in my head, end up a jumbled mass of incoherent.

“I’m sorry, what?” someone will ask.

Flustered and blushing fiercely, I’ll attempt a repeat or simply shake my head and wave my hand and say “nothing” or “don’t worry about it” because honestly, it’s just not worth the trouble.

In conversations, I spend a lot of time nodding. People assume I’m a good listener. I am, I love a good story, but what makes me the best kind of listener is that I generally won’t compete for the floor. If you want to talk your head off about the new healthcare plan or what an ogre your husband is or how unjust the universe is for not giving you an iPod, I may or may not agree with you, I may or may not sympathize, you’ll probably never know if you don’t ask me and even then chances are my brief answer will be noncommittal at best. I’ll shrug and raise my eyebrows and that will be the end of it.

“Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.”

I have no doubt I’d say something idiotic. This in turn would be met with either complete silence or annoyance while I purpled with shame, only to go home and obsess about the discussion non-stop until I gave myself a nose bleed. Did I say something wrong? Should I have phrased that differently? Did I offend? Should I have been angrier? Did I seem too angry?

That’s one of the reasons I love writing. I have time, time to coax the words out, string them together thoughtfully and hopefully in a grammatically correct fashion. It makes it easier to express myself. I can hear my voice more clearly on paper than I can with my own ears, if that makes sense. There’s too much pressure when I’m verbal, too much neurosis bubbling to the surface and making me feel like a lunatic.

When I met my husband, the most I said to him in the beginning was on paper. I wrote lengthy notes to him, all of which he still keeps in a drawer somewhere. Nothing sappy, no saccharine poetry or florid declarations of love, just whatever was bouncing around in my skull that day. I think it’s why he enjoys reading the blog, it’s a little window to my brain on days when I’m too exhausted to put effort in to a conversation, when my sense of humor has been sapped and all I want to do is stare at the television for a few minutes before nodding off in an upright position.

I use enough words during the day. Things you don’t expect to have to ever say, phrases that would sound strange and out of place to the average person.

“Don’t drop your butt all the way in to the toilet water!”

“I will NOT play with you if you keep shooting me. I do NOT like being shot.”

“Why are you trying to make me crazy today?”

“If you pull your wiener out and pee on someone, you will go to jail.”

And of course there are the exasperated substitutions I fling out at the top of my lungs when I’ve reached the end of my frayed rope.

“Fudge knickers!”

“Son of a basket.”

“Shizznizzle.”

“Frack!”

“Crappadoodle.”

Feel free to use those as necessary, for those moments when an actual vocabulary fail you.

I have those often.

Use your words, not your fists. Visit The Spin Cycle, hosted by Sprite’s Keeper.

Sometimes We Take Nature Walks

Generally I’ve found nature tends to stay the hell away from us.

Usually there’s shrieking, whining, complaining and tomfoolery, which wildlife will avoid as a rule, unless there are rabies involved, in which case we would be the ones backing away from the disheveled raccoon that was a little too enthusiastic in wanting to cuddle.

When we embarked on this nature trail, which was not so much a nature trail as a sodden path through the bushes not very far removed from the street and traffic, we were kind of hopeful we’d see something alive.

Not so much.

There were fish at some point. Turtles. And a couple of people riding ponies, but even they were reluctant to come close.

If there had been dinosaurs anywhere in the vicinity, I think they would’ve eaten us just to get some peace and quiet.

So instead of observing wildlife, we broke sticks and squished berries and squealed and pointed out dragon flies before each and every child began to complain about how far we’d walked and how their legs hurt and how thirsty, parched even, they were. They were barely surviving, crumpling at various stages, needing to be carried and not capable of walking another. Single. Step.

Of course, everyone perked when we told them we’d be going out for milkshakes.

Who wouldn’t?

Ambiguity and Random Tuesday Thoughts

 

• I may or may not have rubbed my van up against somebody’s red bumper yesterday while I was dropping my first grader off at school. The car was parked with its nose out in traffic and I was trying to squeeze around it to pull in next to the curb up ahead. I believe the car was empty. I mean, nobody chased after me waving their arms and shouting about how I’d taken a strip of paint off the front of their Chevy or whatever. That is, if I did actually rub up against it, I mean if I were to believe that line of red paint near the back tire of my silver van, I suppose you could assume that I might have…if red lines were to be trusted. Right?
  

   

• My depth perception kind of sucks in the morning.
  

   

• If the red Chevy driver comes after me with a machete and a repair bill you will be the first to know.
  

   

• Yesterday my teenager said she actually likes her family. She said, and I quote, “You’re pretty cool.” She followed it up with the acknowledgement that she is clearly lame for thinking so and the fact that she’d rather sit at home with us, than hang out with her school friends, is proof positive that she needs years of intensive therapy. I wonder if she’d be willing to say that on camera, so I can have evidence for when she goes back to ignoring me and cringing when I try to hug her.
  

   

• We are so cool. No take-backs. Well, I would be except for my Old Navy wardrobe, that goes without saying.
  

   

• Right before Easter I tried to go dress shopping at Ross, just to have something decent to wear to lunch at my sister’s other than the usual stay-at-home mom uniform of jeans or khakis and tee shirts. Sometimes it’s nice to dress like a girl. Whatever. I was quickly reminded why I hate shopping when I walked in to the fitting room. Full length mirrors and bad lighting are no friends of mine. Neither are plunging V-neck dresses that look adorable on hangers. That kind of cleavage display should be illegal. You know it’s bad when you walk out to show your daughter and she doubles over with giggles then averts her eyes.
  

   

• I wore slacks and a button down shirt to Easter. Looking like a girl is overrated.
  

   

• The husband and I attempted to start an exercise program last week, using a series of DVDs that may or may not have been copied from another copy by someone whose name I will not mention. On day two we came to the realization that said DVD series was attempting to kill us and possibly prevent us from ever using our arms again. I think when you suffer that kind of muscle fatigue and pain, they really should guarantee results after one day. What’s the point of feeling every single one of your screaming arm muscles if nobody else can even see them underneath your pasty arm flab? My body should really be more efficient in cannibalizing itself.
  

   

• On the plus side, it is kind of entertaining to work out with a partner. Our uncoordinated flailing, frequent wincing and primal grunting actually drove our seven-year-old to a fit of giggles that resulted in damp undies. You know you look foolish when your display makes a first grader pee his pants.
  

   

• My son’s first grade teacher took a stand yesterday against a bill that’s before the governor tying in her salary to student performance among other things. As of last Friday, all the teachers in the elementary school had agreed to call in sick as a protest against the state’s decision to pass the bill. Only about 30% of the teachers actually followed through. She was pissed. How exactly do you show a unified front when 70% of the other participants chicken out on you?
  

   

• The grackles are dive bombing my dogs again. I think they’re nesting in our avocado tree. Perhaps my dogs were once ferocious bird predators, but in their old age it takes them quite a bit of effort to even crawl out of bed. Between their arthritis and nerve issues, I think the last thing on their mind is devouring a fledgling. Although they might gum one to death if they find it just lying around.
  

   

Make Random part of your Tuesday? Or not. Whatever. Your loss.

I Suppose I Can Sleep When I’m Dead?

There’s was a certain sense of victory when my babies started sleeping through the night. After the initial panic of oh-my-god-are-they-still-breathing, when I fist pumped the air and high fived myself, I started to think maybe, just maybe my life would start to resemble normal again now that middle of the night feedings were a thing of the past.

Now that I expect a full night’s sleep, I am greedy. Sleep is a gateway drug to more sleep. I want it all the time.

All my kids sleep through the night. In theory.

2 a.m. – (from the boys’ room) “Mooooooooooooooooooooom. Moooooooooom. Mommommommommommommom. MOOOOOOOM.” Stumble out of bed, tripping, muttering, a flip-flop slides across the floor, almost walk in to a wall, burst through the door where both kids still appear to be sleeping, the little one pops his head up. “Whahappened?” I mutter, out of breath. “I’m cold. I want covers.” The covers are balled up around his feet, he cannot untangle or decipher the mess of blanket. “Fine.” I cover, coax back to bed, and stumble back.

4:30 a.m. – something streaks past my side of the bed, bangs in to my bathroom, flips on the light, and slams the door. I almost immediately fall back asleep. Two minutes later the light, which is blinding, like the sun, and a small voice, “Mom, please take me to my room. I’m scared. It’s dark.” “It’s night time! You walked here by yourself in the dark!” Whimpering, near tears, “Please?” “Fudge.” Throw back the covers, stumble down the hall, small boy clinging to my pants, entire body glued to my leg, lead him to bed, wait for him to organize stack of plush toys in a protective circle around his pillow, cover, stumble back.

5:30 a.m. – heavy footfalls through the house, something tears in to my bathroom, light searing holes in my eyelids, door slams. I fall asleep almost immediately. Two minutes later, sun light. “Mom.” “Habbawha?” “The light in the garage is on.” ????? “Turn it off then.” “Okay, good night.”

6:30 a.m. – alarm goes off, many times, playing a stupid loop of a stupid song I used to like once before it became the bane of my existence and now it seems to be mocking me. Wake up.

Yes, my kids use my bathroom in the wee hours. Their own bathroom which is directly across both their bedrooms has a door with glass panes that leads to the backyard. I guess it’s a pool door, except we don’t have a pool, so it’s just the murder door. They will not use that bathroom in the middle of the night because you can see shadows playing on the frosted glass. Waving branches most likely from the trees in the yard, but in their mind it’s an axe wielding maniac lingering nightly just outside waiting for some unsuspecting kid to have to take a leak, so they can bust through the door while they’re on the toilet and chop them up to bits.

So they use my bathroom, right next to my bed, right next to my head, which results in a string of disturbing dreams and fitful sleep for me, rather than the deep, peaceful slumber I so crave.

Last night I was being chased by a grinning man with a medical bag who tackled me to draw blood from my carotid artery with a very long needle so he could verify that I was not of demon descent. After that werewolves were trying to get in to my house and I had to continuously check the doors and windows to make sure they were locked and barred, except one of my kids kept throwing them all open and I was running out of time.

What?

Like you never have weird dreams.

Your Emotional Rollercoaster Makes Me Nauseous

He is a pretty boy, according to my daughter, and this in itself is almost too much for her.

The boy she has her heart set on, the bus riding boy who has incited her to toss her cookies on more than one occasion, has his own heart set on somebody else. Weeks ago this discovery prompted a sea of tears which I could only combat with a listening ear, a trip to Burger King, and a viewing of Zoolander in the comfort of Mom and Dad’s bed. This week, my conflicted teen made the bold decision to end her friendship with Busboy because it was causing her far too much strife, because she liked him LIKED him and it was clearly a one-way street, what with him pining after some other teenage girl and all.

She’d bucked up admirably through the better part of the day, so much so that I hadn’t been aware there was anything brewing outside the norm, the norm being screaming scampering children, endless homework battles, hurried dinners and long awaited showers to be taken. After the plates were cleared, I instructed my teen to load the dishwasher and locked myself in the bathroom for a good, steamy, twenty minutes. When I entered the kitchen, my hair still towel wrapped, the only half-filled dishwasher was yawning open and abandoned.

My daughter was in the bathroom herself. “You okay?” I called in.

“Yeah?” she choked out.

Something was amiss I suspected, but mostly I suspected my dishes were not going to get done.

Ten minutes later she walked out, her leaky eyes red rimmed, her nose dripping, shoulders collapsed.

She’d told Busboy she couldn’t be friends with him anymore. This boy she liked LIKED, this boy she’d kissed more than once, this boy who told her she was pretty and held her hand and made her feel good, who she incidentally still had to share a bus ride with, she had cut things off with, wished him a merry life, and said good-bye. It was a “friend” break-up.

I hugged her, I stroked her hair, I told her I knew it felt bad, that it would get better with time.

She crawled in to bed and stayed there.

After I did the dishes, I walked in to her room where she was still crying with her covers pulled up to her chin.

She’d been texting the boy and working herself in to a frothy lather.

“What happened now?”

Apparently “I hope you’re happy with her” wasn’t the true message she wanted to convey. The true message was something like “but I trusted you and told you stuff I’ve never told anyone and you were my first kiss and I’m so angry expletive expletive”. To which he responded angrily. To which she’d responded angrily. To which he responded angrily. To which she’d responded with “I hope you die a horrible death and possibly grown a painful boil on your rear end”. Maybe not verbatim, but surely you get the gist.

“I want to sleep in your bed, Mom.” She wailed.

I soothed, I comforted. I inwardly wished for the relative ease of the terrible twos which have nothing NOTHING on the teen years.

She was still crying the next morning. STILL.

She hadn’t slept, she couldn’t eat.

And this was just a FRIEND, only her first in what will surely be a series of heartbreaks. It’s like the flu. Your kid won’t just get one in their lifetime, you can immunize every flu season, but you’re going to have to nurse them through puking, diarrhea, fevers, and coughing regardless.

I felt just as useless and anxious. I couldn’t even load her up with Motrin and trust that she’d feel better in a few days.

“Can I get you anything? Why don’t you take a nap?”

And she did nap.

And hours later she got dressed, came out in to the living room and seemed better…chipper almost.

I was relieved, but still I worried.

My husband found the switch a little too abrupt. “What changed?” he asked her privately.

Change? Apparently my powers of perception were not at peak capacity…

Much had changed. For example, she’d apologized (via text message since nobody in their right mind uses the telephone anymore) and he’d accepted and they gone back to being friends and life was beautiful again – birds were singing, flowers were blooming, somewhere in the world, rainbows were stretched across clear azure skies. Never mind all that stuff she’d said about Busboy being a jerk who’d taken advantage of her affections and mopped the bus floor with her heart and then stomped on it with his big sneaker. He was super, she was super, the whole thing was super duper. Yay.

Seems like a lot of exerted effort just to avoid doing dishes, doesn’t it?

Sigh.

Photographic Evidence

So they don’t actually hate each other.

Who knew?

Oddly enough, I didn’t make them pose.

Just caught them in the act.

What is the world coming to, when siblings  have their arms around each others shoulders, and not their hands around each others necks?

Granted, I tend not to photograph the latter.