Anyone else think that the last half of December is the most cruel time for a Mom to be sick?
It should be illegal
We did manage some fun before the snot took over. Like Christmas tree hunting.
Which is a very serious sport in Redneckville. All aspects must be considered: height, fullness, shape, color, allowable gaps, needle dispersion, sharpness, rate of shedding…
I neglected to share with you the adventure that was last year’s tree picking ceremony.
Both of the boys suddenly had bladder emergencies. And while it is still somewhat socially acceptable for a 4-year old to unzip and whiz… I think the grown kid could have earned us a promptly escorted exit.
So peeing in tandem… I was relieved that it didn’t make a reappearance this year at the same Christmas tree lot. This may or may not have had something to do with the owner giving Mr. Daddy permission to access a prized fishing spot.
It’s a weird, weird redneck world.
(You don’t let me use your fishing trail, I pee on your merchandise)
Anywho… my retelling of last year’s faux pas earned this expression:
Apparently public urination is hilarious. Who knew?
Then Mr. Daddy and I had a very important discussion about the tree selection process. After breaking the news to Itty Bit about his choice…
it proceeded something like this:
Oh honey, this one is perfect!
Rach, that one is too big.
No it’s not! It’s perfectly shaped and look, no gaps!
Rach, that one is too big.
No it’s not! We’ll put it under the vaulted ceiling in the living room.
Rach, that one is too big.
Honeeeeeyyyyy… (batting my eyelashes while Itty Bit looks at me in confusion)
(hauls tree home, sets it up in the wrong spot… scrapes ceiling… drags it to the vaulted section, touches ceiling…)
Honey, why’d you get such a big tree?
And in other December news… other than refraining from peeing in public, my husband also bestowed a well-met gift.
King Julien and I have dared each other for some time to post photos of what we considered our World’s Grodiest Sofa. My frugal self knew that our set was a good decade past replacement time and I wouldn’t gross y’all out with a picture because I LIKE YOU.
Thankfully the furniture guy was ready to dicker. (An important side note… furniture stores will dicker even quicker if you give your 5-year old a frappucino before entering and tell him to test out the cushiness of each couch. Especially let him know that everyone wants to hear “The Wheels on the Bus” at full volume. Kindergartener available for rent).
Our set is not quite as broken in, but every bit as comfy looking.
I wasn’t sad to retire the bachelor/bachelorette set :)
Moving right along… December is the most dangerous month for kitchen fires. Did you know that? Due in great part to the fact that *I* refuse to be beaten back by that ridiculous smoke alarm.
I was finishing up the last batch of ELEVEN zucchini bread loaves (desist mockery, I actually get asked for the recipe) at 12:30 AM (if that is not the definition of holiday schedule cramming…).
I was leaned over to retrieve the hot pans out of the far corners of the hot oven. Seeing as how I’m vertically challenged… this meant that I was doubled up over the blistering inside edge of the oven door. With my short little appendages fully inside the searing heat.
My thoughtful redneck (whom I’d assumed fallen asleep in front of Facebook as he is wont to do each night), chose that moment to TICKLE the inch of back fat that had become exposed during the whole leaning process.
(utmost apologies for the traumatic mental image)
So as my upper body is awkwardly ensconced in a 4000 degree inferno device, you can imagine how the sudden unexpected pinch went over.
And one of those stubby little appendages flew backwards with uncontrollable speed and force, directly into a redneck’s sacred zone.
The hallowed procreation station.
(oh come on. Go say it again a’la James Earl Jones and it’s funnier)
In the split second that followed, I spun into a soutenu en tournant that would make my ballet instructor proud, ripped the oven mitts off my hands, took in the sight of my husband doubled over gasping for breath, and unleashed a supersonic stream of I’m still freaked out words.
The poor man held to the counter groaning as a very grumpy (albeit ticklish) Keebler Elf angrily squeaked recriminations at him.
I’m sorry! But you can NEVER tickle me when my body is half in the oven. Oh my gosh! I’m sorrry. AHHHHHH! You scared me to death and I would have burned myself. I didn’t mean to hit you THERE. I’M SORRY! But it’s your fault. You can’t do that!
I’m sorry OKAY!?!?! But you CAN’T do that! Why on EARTH would you tickle me when I’m in the oven like that? WHY!??! I’M SORRY!
He couldn’t even form words. And I couldn’t stop. It went for approximately 428 seconds without a breath until he finally gestured toward where Itty Bit was (hopefully) sleeping.
Let this be a lesson dude, let this be a lesson…
Oh, and I would give you pictures of that perfectly shaped too-tall tree that didn’t get peed on… except that y’all already know I broke my lens.
(OHMYLORD I BROKE MY LENS. MY BABY!)
So I got some terrific unintentional bokeh.
Except that every picture of every PERSON also looks like this. Yay me.
Excuse me while I go weep into my new couch cushions…
And how was YOUR December?