Total Eclipse of the Heart

This is the story of a woman who had no interest in science.

She has a sciencey husband. He was all:

“Hey! The eclipse! Once in a lifetime! Let’s drive to Nebraska!”

She was all:

“I don’t want to. Because: packing, leaving, planning, lists, snacks, endless endless snacks. Just the snacks. Oh Lord, all the SNACKS.”

We drove to Nebraska. Husband accidentally booked us a hotel room in a smoking room. YES THEY STILL SMOKE IN HOTEL ROOMS IN NEBRASKA. You should be ashamed of yourself, Nebraska. I opened all the windows (possibly broke one, I don’t care Nebraska) and there was A LOT OF COMPLAINING.

Then: Ate chicken cacciatore that was… really good. Less complaining. Too busy eating bread slathered in garlic oil and herbs.

Then: Drove to a place called The Crane Nature Center. Who knew? Cranes! In Nebraska! The complaining has now cycled down to about one or two per hour. Sunshine. Hiking paths. Pretty nature stuff. IMG_6942.jpgIMG_6943.jpg

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If you look closely: SNACKS. Of course.

Then: made friends with the all the people. All of them. Everyone was all, “This is so cool! It’s nature! And barbecue! And we’re all in this together! Look at us being all together in this sciencey, once-in-a-lifetime moment!”

Complaining: 1/2 per hour

Then: WHAMMO

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And yes, my pictures don’t do it justice. BECAUSE IT WAS AMAZING. TOTALLY.

I was wrecked. We all applauded and I cried and people hugged and the whole thing just made me realize two things:

  1. Once in a lifetime things are so cool. I wish they happened more often. But, that would change the verbage.
  2. Nebraska is awesome.

Husband and I held hands and I wiped tears. Then, Blonde came up to me and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much for bringing us.” Then Red said, “THIS IS AMAZABALLS.”

And then, a bit later, Blonde came over to me and flopped down in a chair. I said, “You ok?”

He responded, “I’m recovering.”

And Red asked, “Where are the snacks?”

Of course.

Complaining: ZERO

And THEN: We all packed up and walked past the river and the pretty butterfly field and all the people were smiling and saying hi and it was like a Happy Village of Everyone Getting Along Despite 2017, and I was kinda blissing out.

And then we ate at Tommy’s Diner in Grand Island, NE and I had the BEST BUTTERSCOTCH MALT EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.

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ACTION FOOTAGE OF OUR HIPSTER WAITER WITH MAN BUN. I love him. He brought me my malt.

It was, quite simply, a once in a lifetime experience.

Complaining: NEGATORY. NEVER AGAIN. I AM SHOOK.

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Also, there is the hot fudge sundae experience.

I call this photo essay “THIS IS THE SNACK OF DREAMS”

 

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You might say I had a change of heart. A “total eclipse” if you will.

And then: on the drive home, we listened to The Last Battle and I kissed hubs on the cheeck. “Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry I complained so much.”

And hubs said, “You complained? Nah. I don’t remember that.”

The world is a wonderful place.

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The end.

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Summer is here and I love it.

Guys, I haven’t posted here in like crackamillion years.

Wanna know why?

I shall provide you with a neat graphic:

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Go ahead. Pin that graphic to your Pinterest boards. I dare you.

By the way, I don’t wear a bikini but I didn’t have the patience to try and draw anymore.

So, we have been busy, y’all. The calendar in the kitchen is so loaded down with stuff that I tried to add something to it the other day and it shrank away from me and started weeping. “Go away,” Calendar said, rocking back and forth. “I just want to be alone!”

On Tuesday, we were so busy that by the end of the day, after the boys were upstairs in bed, I found myself looking around in a panic, wondering where my keys were. It’s like when the cool army people jump out of planes, you see? You know… they’re all lined up, jumping out, all “Go GO GO GO!!” – that’s us. We are the army, people. We are being all that we can be.

I’m exhausted.

Ok, granted there has been pool time, and this is when I get to sit in one place for a prolonged period of minutes. I sit there, and then I slowly start to sweat into the plastic back of my chair and it imprints itself all over my white backside. So, then, of course, I go gingerly into the pool and swim around with my head above water, all old-lady paddling, and then get back out. And go sweat again. Sometimes I read. A lot of times I just stare at the blue water and try to remember where it is we are going to next.

By the way, I TOTALLY get it, Mom. You used to take us to the pool? I remember you had a leopard print one-piece swimsuit that was very Mrs. Robinson, except you weren’t really into seducing anyone. You were a good woman.* But the swimsuit still was so Anne Bancroft. ANYHOW… I totally get it. Sitting at the pool, watching your daughters prunitize themselves in the water for hours… You are a saint. We moms, we are SAINTS.

Plus that swimsuit was very cool.

Yesterday, I took Blonde and Red to the pool after some sort of thing they had (I think it was play practice? Because they are in the summer musical? I dunno anymore. I just drive them places and pick them up. I’m a Mom Uber. A MUber, if you will.)

So, we’re at the pool, and I have just head-outta-the-water paddled my sweat off, and plunked myself back down with a book. Red approaches. He’s all wet and drippy and has that peculiar wet-kid walk that is part waddle with his hands all clutched up under his chin. I don’t know why my children walk like this when they go to the pool. It’s like the water makes them all self-clutchy and I guess I should be happy they don’t clutch any other body parts. They look all wet and shrunken, like little wet rabbits, and it’s kind of cute.

ANYHOW.  (Didn’t you miss this? Momsie’s brain while writing is like watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, I tell you.)

So, Red approaches and stands by me, too close, as every seven year old must stand next to his mom, and drips all over my book. “Whatcha doin?” he asks and I bite my face off to not respond with sarcasm.

“I’m… reading. This. It’s a book.” (Ok, that did have a whiff of sarcasm but trust me, people, this was the softer, gentler version.)

Red nods and then asks, “Why aren’t you swimming? Why did you bring THAT *nods derisively towards the book* to HERE *gestures widely to the water.”

I see where he is going with this. His brain cannot understand that I am not in the water the entire time, until I get pruny.

Also, it was adult swim. This is pool-jail for little kids. And here I was NOT SWIMMING WHEN I SO COULD BE.

In other words, I was being glib. I was being all glib about the POOL. This was hard for him.

I tried to explain.

“Honey. I’m an adult. That’s what adults do. We bring books to the pool and we don’t like to get our hair wet.”

He dripped a moment, and nodded, staring off in the distance.

And that’s how my child learned that growing up is awful.

The end.

 

By the way, I took them home and fed them ice cream bars for dinner. This is because I am glib, but I am not crazy. It was necessary.

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*ARE. You ARE a good woman, Mom. The verb tense is important.

“Hey, did you know that goats don’t like leashes?”

This is my vantage point:

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Look closely. The cat is also helping.

 

Chair. Coffee. Lots of coffee. Oatmeal. Computer. Listening.

Four small boys are circling the table in dining room. The table looks like Lego Land walked by and puked all over the table. Like, all over it. Also on the floor. Maybe also in the living room too. A bit.

They are discussing various things. It’s pretty technical at times. “No! I LOSTED MY HEAD! Do you guys see my head anywhere? It’s ok, though I still have powers. *whispers* In my tiny hands.

Then the conversation takes a rather interesting twist:

“GUYS. GUYS. Did you know? If you put a leash on a goat and try to walk him? He’ll chew your face off.”

I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that either.

I don’t know how the goat thing started. Is there a Lego goat? Is there a teeny tiny leash in there that can of course get lost and then become REALLY IMPORTANT?

Then, one poor soul says: “Cats. Cats don’t like leashes either.”

They all look, as if on cue, at Steve, Mr. Sweet Fluffypants, who is lounging by the table in all his furry glory. He eyes them with the cool confidence. “Bring it, small people,” he says.

And so, they put a leash on him. I am still watching from the chair, wondering at which point I should get involved. Prior to the face chewing? Or maybe after just a small nibble?

And then Steve allowed himself to be drug across our wood floors, like a kitty Swiffer. It should have been on film. Instead, I watched in awe as he actually put one paw up to groom his ears while being dragged around.

Like a boss.

I did put a stop to the dragging after one full rotation of the room. For one, poor Steve’s fur was now coated in dust bunnies and I needed to squeegee him off. I did consider taking him upstairs and throwing him under our bed a couple times, though. He really picks up dirt and lint with amazing finesse!

I could market this.

Anyhow, also, the leash thing was morphing into, “Hey! Lemme put this on you! I’ll take YOU for a walk! Around the block! Outside!” to the littlest brother and we have enough rumors, about general parenting practices at our house, thank you. We don’t really need leashes added to that mix.

Also, safety. Basic safety. Don’t email me. I shut the whole leash thing down, I promise.

And then, the boys just kinda stared at each other. Bereft. Their weird game had been snuffed out and what to do? I, always helpful, pointed out there was basically the population of China in Legos within two feet of them. One of the boys melted to the floor in despair. The Legos were old and tired. They had just drug a cat across the FLOOR, woman. You CAN’T GO BACK FROM THAT.

Until one of them* said,

“Hey, I can make a bubble with my own saliva.” And they were off to find a mirror and set up the Disgusting Saliva Bubble Olympics 2016.

I would like to say, just for the record, that usually I would intervene on this because EW and We are a Nice Family, and we Don’t Do That. Etc.

But it’s been raining for the past two hours and it’s August. You get the idea, you moms of huddled children at the End Times of Summer. You know.

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Notice the way this cat likes, literally, to live in the edge.

*This was not my kid, who said that, about the saliva thing.

*Well, it might have been.

*Not sure. I can’t recall exactly.

The Lego Underpants, or Star Wars?

Linking up with my Beloved Five Minute Friday today!

The theme?

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This morning I had to face a rather major decision:

Do I change out my husband’s underwear drawer with my five year old’s Lego undies, or shall we go with a slightly more refined Star Wars option?

You know, when it’s around 5 am, it’s decisions like these that really can break you.

If you are wondering if we kind of do things rather loosey goosey around here when it comes to undergarments, let me remind you that today is One of the Best Holidays in the History of Mankind Like Ever!

April Fools.

And no, I am not trying to be super clever. I gave that up for Lent, and then, for some reason it just stuck. Anyhow, it is not an April Fools that I feel this day is one of the grandest celebrations on our calendar. I am a HUGE fan of this day. HUGE.

Let’s do a quick review of past Momsie Fooled You  moments, shall we?

  1. Two years ago I emailed my dad and told him that Brian and I were “expecting.” This one, for some reason, got everyone really riled up at his office (my brother in law works there. My sister immediately texted me after the email because that’s how it works. You drop the bomb, your phone explodes.) Again, I thought I was being clever. They were freaked out more on the “holy cow you are so old and I gotta go sit down” scale of things. Thus, IT WAS AWESOME.
  2. Last year, I called my husband and told him, as I had both boys start meowing in the background, that we “had” to adopt some kittens. By “some” I think I used the number four. As I started telling him what we had already named all these poor widdle kitties, the panic in his voice was, again, TOTALLY AWESOME.
  3. I tried to tell my friends that my book had been picked up by a agency in Hollywood and so… BOTTLED, THE MOVIE was coming! And a sequel might be in the works! BOTTLED, SHE STILL DOESN’T DRINK. Wooo hoooo! They were all over it until I pushed it too far. I told them Sandra Bullock was gonna play me.  But still, for that one moment, BOTTLED THE MOVIE WAS AWESOME!

So, this morning, as I was trying to stuff my husband’s underwear drawer with impossibly tiny whities, I sniggered in evil glee. This is the most glorious thing, this April Fools stuff.

I also might have poured cat chow in the boys’ cereal bowls for them. I know. This is perhaps going over the line into “crass” territory with all the Fooling. Momsie was never one to shy away, though, with going right UP to the line of crass. I reserve the right to get dangerously close to crass every once in a while. I have two boys. And, also, may I just say that while they were sitting there, all disheveled from sleep, their hair poking up all over the place, watching their squinched  up little faces as the cat chow clattered into their bowls? IT WAS AGAIN TOTALLY AWESOME.

Ok, so here’s the lesson behind the awesome (I always try to have a lesson. I may be almost crass but I’m all about the lesson):

It’s a decision, these little traditions. These are markers your kids will hang on to throughout the days, the months. They won’t ever forget them. It’s these little moments of wacky that keep my house running on good energy, and I love them. It’s a decision that every year we decorate our kids doorway and bed with so many streamers and balloons on the morning of his birthday, so much so that Steve the Cat gets decorated too. It’s a decision that we  make a huge deal out of the First Day Of School. And the Last Day. We pay attention to these events with goofy and joyous ceremony. So much of life is doldrum. And a lot of our days, especially for my littles, seems to pass by at the speed of life. We need markers, little pinpointed moments that stop us, if only long enough for a good laugh.

And also, I leave you with this:  The husband always leaves for work long before out household is out of bed. And I have heard nothing, NOTHING back from the husband on the underwear switcharoo. This really makes me stop and wonder with shock and awe:

Did he just not notice? 

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Throwback Thursday: Z is for Zoo. Of course it is.

When Momsieblog started, waaaaaaay back in the day, I created my own, very special, full of snark, Alphabet Book for Parents. I was amazed by how many ideas I had, even for the letter Q, and how many extra ones I had to archive, never to see the light of day on Momsie. You poor readers. I mean, S is for Snot is a charmer, for sure. I wonder now why I never posted that one?

Anyhow.

Here is my Z. For you. #TBT !

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Well, we’re finally here.  My Z for you.

And then what? For those of you in the know, there is no letter in the alphabet after Z.  So, it’s time for me to pack up my blog and head for something new – like interpretive dance.  Or perhaps a degree in the philosophy of The Simpsons.  (This one really exists; click here.)  Or, I could see if Gwen Stefani needs a backup singer…

JUST KIDDING. I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE.

I got material to share, folks.  It’s not like the letter Z was going to stop my kids from acting nutball.  Or the internet to stop providing me with stuff like this:

 

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You are stuck with  me, my friends.  Stuck.  Like litter at the bottom of the cat box stuck.

But I digress.

 

Recently my family ventured to the skating rink for an all church skate extravaganza.  It was epic.  Here are some of my observations:

1. All skate rinks have the same carpet.  Stare at it too long and it’ll give you a seizure.

2. All skate rinks have the same guy, kinda circa 1970’s, possibly with a comb in his back pocket, who smoothly manuevers the skate rink like a BOSS.

3. All skate rinks should not try to attempt any food items other than packaged Twizzlers and maybe a chocolate bar.  Hotdogs?  A risky business.

4. All skate rinks have bathrooms with sloped, tiled floors that reduce you and your toddler to nervous laughter because why just go to the potty? Why not try to add a couple triple sow-cow and limbo lessons in that bathroom with a five-year old who has questionable aim?

5. All skate rinks have to do the limbo. It’s a cruel, cruel world.

 

One other observation:  I haven’t skated since, well, probably college, and I am just not very good at it.  BUT – our pastor?  He was ON POINT.  He almost gave the moustached, 70’s guy a run for his money.  He just kept smoothly gliding about without a care in the world, which makes sense, because Jesus, you know.

I was a bit envious.  At one point, I pushed my four-year old out of the way so I could grab onto my husband’s hand/hair/arm to keep me from planking on the skate floor. And you do know, don’t you, what planking with skates on ends up becoming, right? Just one, long, humiliating, stretchhhh while small children roll by, until your nose breaks your fall.  I think the words, “Don’t worry about Red! He’s closer to the ground – he won’t fall as hard!” were uttered.  Evidently skate parks kinda bring out a rather grim Game of Thrones mentality in me.

Again, it’s a cruel world.

 

So, after the skate party, we all decided to go for ice cream.  This was a fabulous idea because here’s something I forgot: skating is hard work. At one point, I was doing a sassy scissor move and just kept getting stuck with my poor scissors going wider, and wider… Not pretty.  Not pretty at all.  My thighs were angry with me, and only a chocolate malted would help.  And possibly some fries.  To gently assist the Skateland hotdog.

We all piled in the car. It was getting to be bedtime, and we were tired, rather cranky, and overstimulated from that carpet.  But we were going for ice cream! Family fun continuing! It’s just down here a bit!

And then our Favorite Ice Cream Place That We Always Go To just up and disappeared.

Allow me to explain.  We were on the main drag of a rather small city – one we have traversed a majillion times I am sure.  We have passed this  ice cream parlor a majillion and one times.  We knew where it is.  We were going RIGHT there!  It was just down this road a bit!

Until, of course, it wasn’t.  And we ended up driving up and down and then up again looking for an ice cream place that has ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT THERE. IT’S RIGHT HERE.  I SWEAR IT! IT’S… not. Oh, oops, maybe further down?

 

At this point, both toddlers in the back have caught on that perhaps, something is afoot.  They can sniff out tension and trouble like a puppy finding Cheezits in the couch, I tell you.

And so, when that happens, so begins the play-by-play commentary from the back seat:

“Wat doin’ Daddy?”

“Where’s da ice creams? I wanna da sprinkles!”

Daddy, rather grimly: “We’re on our way, kids.  We’re taking the scenic route.”

“Wats a swenic route?”

Daddy:  “This is.”

“What’s DIS?”

Daddy:  “The scenic route.”

“WHAT’S DA SCENIC ROUTE?”

DIS. IS.”

Both toddlers peer out the window as if to spot an answer to all these troubles, like why they are not eating da sprinkles yet.

Momsie starts to giggle.

“But daddy, scenic route? WHY we are going?”  (My children start to sound like Yoda when they become flustered.)

“Daddy, WHERE IS DA ICE CREAMS?”

Daddy:  “We are taking the scenic route TO the ice creams and that’s final!  I happen to like the scenic route!”

 

I like the scenic route too.  Most of the time.  My children take me on it nearly every day.  We are often all a bit tired and disheveled, mainly from the fact that my boys must run and go and do everything all the time, and it’s hard to keep up, and allow for detours.  But, we are a family. God’s family. And we are on this journey together.

God asks us to take the scenic route.  It’s worth it. It’s not quite what I expected or want all the time, but worth it.

And yes, der will be sprinkles.

 

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When Reality Hits, Give It a Timeout. With #Netflix #Streamteam

Y’all. Life is hard.

I pretty much fully realized this little nugget of wisdom when I realized that giving birth meant discomfort.

Here is a visual of how life is hard: (Don’t WORRY. No birthing pictures here. I am not that crazy.)

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Anyhow.

Our family had a great weekend.

I know, my leader set you up to make you think that this was going to be another post of misery and woe, because there are toddlers in the house, but it was actually not so bad. And I do realize they’re not really toddlers that much anymore, even though I insist on calling them so. And, why was our weekend so awesome?

The Wonderful Husband Played The Game of LIFE With Them for Three Hours Straight, and I just sat and watched.*

The Game of LIFE (this is how the boys refer to it – it must be called, full on, with much fanfare, The Game of LIFE. Much like that one dude has to be called now The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Or, how I refer to my twenties as The Time When I Could Eat Whatever I Wanted. The name matters, y’all.)

The Game of LIFE involves mortgages and buying things and basically putting yourself in crippling debt, and what five year old wouldn’t think this is a blast? They have no concept of reality, folks. Of course they don’t. Their job is to bludgeon US with reality.

The husband, sweet clueless blonde, decided to be a farmer for his profession. Thus, he lost his patience with LIFE around the time his crops were lost in a freak monsoon, and he was left with five dollars and a roller skate for transportation. But he bravely continued. It was his row to hoe. (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?. I HAD TO.)

The two boys fared better. Overheard:

“I wanna buy another house! I wanna buy ALL da houses!”

“Is that the luxury model of dat car? Cuza I have no luxury model. I need it.”

“Baby! I have der baby! I’m all married now and I get a baby! Bring on da babies!”

“More! MORE MORE MORE MORE! Must have ALL THE THINGS!”

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Visa. IT’S EVERYWHERE YOU WANT TO BE.

It’s a great little game. It teaches fiscal responsibility, how to deal with depression, and that babies can only occur after you hit the jackpot of MARRIAGE!!!!! on the Life Pod. This gadget replaced the original spinner. And, this game has CREDIT CARDS. For reals. Life just got rather real-ish. Nuthin’ says grownup like huge plastic debt.

I must admit, the baby one really kind of threw me for a loop. They were so terrifying thrilled with the idea.

After three hours, two bowls of popcorn, and rapid aging on the husband’s part, we were done. Blonde had won. He had finished the game with same amount of money as our national debt, plus three children.

Red was quick to point out that ending the game of LIFE pretty much meant they were all in heaven. Wow. That killed the moment a bit (AGAIN! I know, right?).

And the husband collapsed on the couch next to me, exhausted from all the bills and mortgages and car payments and career struggles.

Momsie, the eternal band-aid fixer of the family, remedied the situation with this:

1. Ice cream

2. Netflix.

Boom. All better!

After the boys were in bed**, we watched this:

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This little show is a gem. Better Off Ted satires the workplace in a way that I haven’t really laughed at so well since, well, the husband had to become a sharecropper. The main character (aptly called, Ted) works at Veridian Dynamics, a research company that creates… I’m not sure. And I don’t think the workers there know either.

Each episode of BOT (my acronym. Like GOT, but, not) gives us a glimpse at life, work, career, and just how nutball all those things mixed together can be, with sizzling accuracy.

I don’t often laugh out LOUD when I watch television. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s not demure, which I am, of course. Or it’s because there just isn’t much to laugh at anymore because, well, bad television,

But I LAUGH a lot with this show. It’s medicine for the soul, I tell you.

And if you don’t take your medicine… well then, you could lose your sense of humor when you end up on welfare, while playing a board game with your two millionaire children.

Watch the following. Why? Because it’s chock full of antibiotics, for your soul.

* Ok, I didn’t just sit and watch. I also: folded laundry, graded papers, and wrote this post. Moms don’t just sit and watch. It’s not in our contract.

** This show does have saucy bits, just so you know. The hubs and I accept the saucy bits. The Game of LIFE rather forced them upon us.

Furry Friends, My Marriage, and Netflix Streamteam

 

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I would like to thank Netflix for the wonderfulness of my marriage. (I was going to say, “…for saving my marriage” but that’s not even slightly true as our marriage status is always at, say, a 7.5 on a scale of 1-10. I am only including this disclaimer because my mother reads my posts and she’ll be calling me later if there is a whiff of trouble brewing. WE’RE FINE, MOM.)

Anyhow.

My POINT is that Netflix has added much FLAIR to an already very happy and content marriage. And by FLAIR, I mean,

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ALL HAIL KING JULIEN!!!

Ok, now before you get any weird ideas, let me explain.

(The lawyer has once again interjected that NO one HAD any weird ideas until I mentioned them. That, perhaps, I am the only one WITH weird ideas. I asked him to leave.)

Friday night at our house is pizza and movie night. We make pizza with teensy bits of green stuff in the sauce (VICTORY) and then we watch some mind numbing movie with Thomas the Incapable, or Christian Vegetables, or some such (FAILURE).  So I sit, eat my pizza, knit, fold laundry, multitask out the wazoo (painful) in some way, and the babies zone out in that toddler way while Thomas yet again proves that he is a bit of a loser who never listens, and he so needs to be scrapped.

Lately? I have found myself a bit… bored. I’m tired of laundry. I’m tired of knitting. And we have watched EVERY Veggie Tales movie in our cue – we need something NEW, ya’ll. Don’t get me wrong; I love vegetables who want to teach us about Jesus. I really do. But I know all the lines. ALL of ’em.

We need something new.

And in pranced King Julien! Thank you, little furry lemur guy with the funky accent! First of all, you SAVED our New Years Eve with the King Julien countdown (BRILLIANT, NETFLIX) so we got to take the babies upstairs at nine pm and call it a New Year (although, I know, Blonde did smell a rat on this one and kept pointing out “dat it’s NOT midnight! WHY are we going to bed and IT’S NOT MIDNIGHT, MOMMY?”   I answered him, “Because it’s against the law for six year olds to stay up past ten. If you stay up past ten, a police officer will come and knock on the door and interrogate you. Which hurts a bit.” This caused him to blink at me, but since he will be studying for the bar soon, he decided to not argue with the law.)

I do realize that flat out lying to my children has a statute of limitations. It’s a risky move. But I will go there. There was chocolate pie (the non sharing kind) to be eaten, and a movie to watch, and cuddles with the hubs – so I lied. You don’t know my life.

King Julien has enough sass to actually make me stop multitasking for a few minutes and WATCH. And for that, I thank you, Netflix.

Because here’s what happens when I multitask:

1. My brain gets tired. Tired brain = Brain wants bed.

2. Hubs ends up watching ESPN by himself. Nothing good can come from that.

3. Another opportunity for meaningful communication over which movie to choose, or at least a decent foot rub, is lost.

4. Our marriage stays at the 7.5 rating, instead of a solid 8, where it should be.*

 

So now? Movie night is SAVED! Hurrah!

And also, this happened:

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Don’t be distracted by the demon cat with glowing eyes behind me. He’s just jealous because I received my Official Adventures of Puss In Boots Netflix Calender. THESE ARE THE REASONS I BLOG, PEOPLE. SWAGGGGGG.

I am not sharing this little gem. It’s going in MY office, where I can stare at Boots’ furry cuteness and try to stay organized at the same time.

So, I am grateful, Netflix, for my 7.5 of my marriage AND that I can keep track of my appointments and meetings (for the most part because a lot of times I don’t look at calendars. I know. They’re supposed to be helpful tools. Calenders are hard.)

Thanks, Netflix!

 

*Why, you ask, only an 8? Why not, say, a 9? Or, even a 9.5?

Well. A few reasons.

1. I married an engineer. Engineers are rather, uh, shall we say, Spock-ish.

2. I am not Spock-ish. I am loosey goosey. Artsy Fartsy. Feely Weely.

3. That whole “Marriage is not all about you; it’s a refinement; learn to forgive; sacrifice; blah diddly blah blah blah” stuff they talk about in all those marriage books and the bible? Yep. Alas. True.

So, marriage is the cheap toilet paper of life, at times. But for us? only 2% of the time.

LOOK I DID MATH! Maybe I am rather Spocky after all.

 

spock_again____by_spockhorror-d4w1gtu

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, did you know? Netflix also carries ALL of the Star Trek episodes. All of ’em. I should know.

Because: Marriage = Big Fat Sacrifices. Blah blah blah.