Scatter-brain

I have a couple of little notebooks sitting by my computer where I jot notes down so I won’t forget.  Then I forget which notebook it’s in and can never find what I need.  It’s a flawless system.

Sometimes I write things down and then move along to my next distraction.  When I flip through the notebooks later, I’m not entirely certain I’ve followed through on my tasks.  I was looking for something last night and came across lots of notes I’m not sure I completed.  Did I email my roll recipe to Rose?  I can’t remember.  Why did I write down the words minatory, furtive, untoward, desultory, incisive, and truculent?  Not a clue.  What required the scribbling of 1/2 + 1/3 + 1/6?  Who knows.  What is this a recipe for: 1.5 sticks butter, 1 1/4 C powdered sugar, 5 oz. chocolate, 1 1/4 T cocoa, 1 t vanilla?  I’m certain I never made it anyway.  What was I supposed to do with the AICPA?  You've got me.  There’s a whole gob of random phone numbers.  Who are these people and did I ever call them?  I DON’T KNOW! 

I also found some things Eva said that I can’t remember if I’ve posted yet.  I’d better post them just in case.  I don’t want to lose them in my flawless organizational system. 

In the bathroom with Eva:

Me: Eva, did you poop?

She stands up and looks in the toilet. 

Eva: Yup.  There's 2 of them.  It’s a family.

In the car:

Eva: I’m so excited for Easter.  I wonder how the Easter Bunny gets all the stuff for my basket.  Maybe he goes to the store.

Me: That’s a good guess.  You’re probably right.

Long pause.

Eva: No, no, no.  That can’t be it.  The humans would see him!

Another long pause.

Eva: Maybe he goes at night instead.  Then no one will be there.

Talking about college:

Me: I went to college to be a teacher.  You can go to college to be anything you want.

Eva: I want to go to college to be a kitty.

Snuggling on the couch:

Eva:  You know how much I love you?

Me:  How much?

Eva: Trillion.54.36.1540.  (She says it trillion point 54 point 36 point 15 40)

Me:  Wow!  That’s a lot.

Eva: You know how much I love Daddy?

Me:  How much?

Eva:  More than that.

Ouch.  Maybe she loves him more because he’s much better at being organized than I am.  Michael never misplaces anything…

Heathen

Eva was learning about prayer at church on Sunday.  After class, she excitedly waved her papers in my face, wanting me to see her exquisite drawings.  One of her papers had two columns - things we tell Heavenly Father we’re grateful for, and things that we ask Him to bless us with.  If you know anything about my daughter, you can guess what she had her teacher draw in the, “I Thank Thee” column.  If you can’t guess, you’re really terrible at trivia and  I pity you.

Why, it’s a kitty, of course. 

Then she showed me the “I Ask Thee” column.  You’ll never guess what she put there.  If you can guess, you’re really amazing at trivia and I envy you.

Why, it’s money, of course.

I was puzzled and asked, “You pray to Heavenly Father for money?”

“Mama! No!  You do!”

“I do?  No I don’t.  I don’t pray for money.”

Now she was getting annoyed and used her stern voice to reply, “Yes you do!  Renember?  You pray for money.  I renember.”

Well, that's just great.  I can just imagine the conversation with her teacher where Eva explained that her mother prays for money all the time.  Now Sister Ball will look at me differently.  She probably thinks I’m a shallow, money-grubbing, heathen idol worshipper – which I’m not.  (I’ve never been shallow.)

I continued the conversation later with Eva at dinner and she was still adamant that she has heard me pray for money.  I assure you…she’s wrong.  I do not pray for money.

Except when the Powerball Jackpot reaches 100 million dollars…

Dog Walker

Just 2 buddies out for an evening stroll.

The other 2 buddies of the family are only invited on the walk to pick up the stink bombs that one of the buddies leaves behind.

Ok, so I don’t actually ever do it.  I make Myke.

He sure is lucky to be our buddy.

Call the Fire Department

I hate Indian food.  There.  I said it.

The first time I had it was about 11 years ago in Spokane while visiting my sissy.  Afterwards, my intestines were flamethrowers.  I vowed never to eat Indian food again.

My friend had a birthday recently and a few of us decided to go out to lunch to celebrate.  We had agreed on Thai food – which I love - but the restaurant was suspiciously closed.  At the last minute, she chose an Indian place as a backup.  I ignored the urge to grab her by the neck and shake her vigorously while screaming, “Are you crazy?!  Do you like pooping fire?!”  Instead I muttered an insincere, “Sounds great!”  Then I wondered why I’m friends with people who like Indian food.

At the restaurant I scanned the menu for the foods least likely to commit arson on my guts.  I went with the Tandoori chicken.  Seemed innocuous.  As I ate my meal I sternly looked at each forkful of food and telepathically yelled, “You’d better not ignite an inferno in my innards you stupid Tandoori chicken!”

Fast forward to after an appropriate amount of digestion time had elapsed, and our little family trekked to the dollar store to pick up some very important Chinese imports.  In the car I could feel my guts starting to tangle around themselves.  I could feel the smoldering embers waiting to burst into flames.  I felt like someone was wringing my intestines out like a wet rag.  I told Michael to drive faster to the dollar store.

When we arrived I burst through the doors and calmly winced, “Do you have a bathroom?”  The cashier turned to me and said in slow motion in a voice that sounded like a cassette player with weak batteries, “It’s out of order.”  I panicked, saw myself launching my payload right there in the middle of Dollar Tree, almost started to cry, then decided my only choice was to bust across the parking lot to Fred Meyer as fast as Myke’s car would take me.

“Gimme the keys!” I shouted and sprinted back to the car, leaving my family at the dollar store to fend for themselves.  As I tried to exit the Dollar Tree lot, a steady stream of cars rolled into Fred Meyer and forced me to sit and wait – forced me to sit and wait while my belly turned into a quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of intestinal terror.

Once in the Fred Meyer lot, my dad’s obsessive need to park the car in a spot where the car doors won’t get dinged took over, and I kept sailing by open spots until I finally screamed at myself, “Booney!  Just park the car you idiot!  YOU ARE GOING TO POOP YOUR PANTS!”

I hopped out and went speed-walking into the store, resisting the urge to hold my backside with my hand in an attempt to suppress the volcano.  Have you ever looked at someone who is speed-walking and thought, “Hmm, she looks like she’s about to mess herself.” 

That’s because she is.

I speed-walked and chanted, “Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants.”  Thankfully, I didn’t.  Even though the journey to the potty seemed like miles, I successfully made it to the bathroom.  I also avoided eye contact with everyone on the way.  I didn’t want people to know my secret shame – that fireballs were cascading through my digestive tract.  I was ashamed of my inferno.  Also thankfully, all of Fred Meyer’s patrons were shopping at the moment I needed to annihilate the bathroom and I was able to extinguish my fire in solitude. 

Most thankfully of all: I wasn’t wearing button-fly jeans.

I supremely hate Indian food. 

Ca-ca-ca-camping!

My friend and I were working out together way back in the Spring when she asked me if we would like to join their family on a camping trip over Labor Day.  I hadn’t eaten breakfast and was dying on the elliptical machine.  I think I was blacking out from overexertion because I suddenly heard the words, “Sure!  That sounds like fun!” rolling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Sure, that sounds like fun?!  What?!  I don’t even like camping.  I mean, not at all. And besides that, the only camping gear we own is a cruddy sleeping bag from Walmart and a checkered camping pillow that smells like it’s been passed around a homeless encampment.  It was a severe momentary lapse of judgment  that I couldn’t renege on.  Dang.

And then Labor Day just up and showed its face on the calendar.  Thankfully, we looted my parents garage of all their expensive camping gear during our 4th of July visit so at least we wouldn’t be sharing the stinky pillow.  But still I felt anxiety about camping.  In the woods.  Preparing dinner with dirty hands.  With bugs all up in your business.  Bleh.

But away we went anyway.  We camped at South Beach State Park near the coast and what a delightful campground it was.  Flushing toilets, showers, water, and all within walking distance to the beach.  Turns out camping isn’t so bad when you can shower and wash your hands before making dinner.  We had a pleasant time and will probably go camping again next year.  Gasp! 

It took a while to load our car – probably because of the copious amounts of Oreo cookies.  And the fact that we didn’t test out our new bike rack beforehand and found our bikes wouldn’t fit on there as intended.  So we white-trashed it and strapped them down all cattywampus like.  Don’t judge.  You weren’t there. 

It only took us an hour to set this bad boy up.  We would have been done sooner but one of the poles was strangely too long so we had to perform minor surgery.  We were successful.  Who says you need formal training to perform surgery?  Hogwash.

Eva and her buddy made great use of the outdoors.  My favorite activity they conjured up was their “exercise bikes.”  They sandwiched their bikes into the bark chips so their back wheels could spin freely and then they would sit and “exercise” whenever we were in camp.  They also spent a lot of time climbing around in my car and leaving dirty footprints everywhere.

We had fun at the beach and exploring tide pools.  We ran down the rock hill at Cobble beach and listened to the cool sounds, we roasted lots of marshmallows and drank hot chocolate.  We spent quality time together as a family and enjoyed the freedom from distractions.  It was a good trip.

And then we hit up Dairy Queen on the drive home.  Seems fair after sleeping on the ground for 2 nights.  Which is my limit. 2 nights and not a minute more.

I guess we’ll try it again next year.  I sure hope my parents don’t expect their equipment back anytime soon…