I've been having a couple of what I like to call "Lucille Ball days." Which would be OK, if they came replete with a laugh track and my own little dressing table. I love dressing tables.
Today, I baked homemade bread, which came out looking great but weirdly salty. I also screwed up the marinade for our pork chops, with too much soy sauce and not enough honey, so...also weirdly salty (we drank A LOT of water with tonight's dinner). And, while heating the grill pan, I somehow didn't notice the Ziploc sandwich bag that had gotten stuck to the bottom--until acrid smoke began to rise and our 800-square-foot house began to fill with toxic fumes so that we had to sit in the dark on the porch and wait for it to clear.
This is all on top of a stupidly-acquired head injury on Thursday and a rapidly-deflating-exercise-ball-in-public moment on Friday. Apparently my wacky-sitcom-wife levels are dangerously high.
Lest you think it's just me in Sitcomlandia, though, I offer the following scene:
MOTH and I were getting the baby ready for bed. Tankbaby really wanted to nurse, so when I handed him to MOTH for a second so I could zip the sleep sack he wears at night, he began to cry piteously. MOTH sighed in exasperation as I reassured Tankbaby that his loving daddy is not, in fact, covered with spikes, and anyway, this will just take a second. This lead to a conversation about how Tankbaby is generally either trying to fling himself out of MOTH's arms (if Mama is a viable alternative) or trying to fuse himself into MOTH's body (the rest of the time). MOTH explained that he had some specific ideas for how a baby should behave, which led me to observe, "I think that, rather than a baby, what you actually wanted was a cockatiel."
MOTH: What's a cockatiel?
Me: It's a kind of a bird.
MOTH: I thought that was a cockatoo.
Me: I think they're both birds. In fact, they might be the same kind of bird, just in different...forms.
MOTH: Like...a solid and a gas?
Goodnight, everyone!
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What a smart kid. Sounds like you lead a very exciting life.
ReplyDeleteYou said cock. Multiple times. Seriously, how come you still let me comment? Also Martha, if you just re-heat a frozen pizza you'd have more time to blog. :)
ReplyDeleteI am 34-years-old (but don't tell anyone) and I still have not figured out that I should not put plastic on/near the hot stove top. We hardly pay attention to our kitchen smoke detector anymore. I walk in the room and it starts screaming, "Danger!"
ReplyDeleteI like how you drop the nugget about the exercise ball that you managed to deflate in a public humiliation situation and then try to walk away from it without full disclosure.
ReplyDeleteNot gonna work sister. Spill.
Also, Elly is completely right about that frozen pizza. I once forgot to feed myself and my kids because I had to plug in and unload my brain.
Soccermom--"Exciting" is a nice way to say "unnecessarily wacky and possibly slightly dangerous to your person." Also, MOTH actually stands for Man Of The House, aka my husband. Although, you're right: he is a smart kid. :)
ReplyDeleteElly--You're like the dirty Ethel to my Lucy.
ajm--Dude, I have set the smoke detector off three times this week! The hell? Maybe your danger emanates through the computer and freaks out my detector?
dufmanno--Fine. I'll tell you the story, but I'm saving it as part of a bigger blog post. If I'm going to embarrass myself, I'm going to get a damn post out of it.
That's a clever kid you've got there, Falling! Cute story!
ReplyDelete