now that my husband has a convenient excuse not to blog…
So the dude messed up his bicep. Like big time.
Like Tylenol-is-a-food-group kind of big time.
And while his right jab is disabled, I’ll show you what that bicep looks like when it’s not making him say all kinds of funny words…
Being a gen-you-wine redneck means that you pretend the Tylenol is working until either the weekend or after-hours. In which case you check in to Urgent Care on Saturday morning and get yourself a pretty new sling and a specialist appointment.
Now explain to me again how he can get out of blogging, but still manages to tease me on Facebook?
He jumped into the fray. Much indebted to Brandi:
Though I must say… I really do prefer watching my own Mr. Rockin Hottie Magnum Daddy wash my car :)
For the record: I did not run out of gas. I have never run out of gas. I’ve done a lot of blogworthy things, but my record for remaining sufficiently fueled at all times is still standing.
But lemme tell ya - when you live in the country, work in the city, and the kiddo goes to school in yet another city… the gas prices make you want to twitch. End rant.
So this leaves you, poor readers, with the crumbs of my randomness yet again. I have some nice posts all written out. In my head. And yet one look at my phone tells me 14 things I forgot to blog about.
As in… when this fair ride suddenly stopped directly over our heads.
Those things never stop. And some girls were stuck in there for a very long time. As you can see below, I was much happier once their ride started moving again, and so did ours.
That just ain’t right. I look like I don’t have any teeth. Like, remember the time Shana’s mom asked her to go look for her teeth in Shana’s driveway?
“I’m sorry son, I fink I lef mah teef on da last ride”
And I have at least three chins.
And weirdly enough, the guy behind us is also wearing blue plaid. We’re the State Fair mini gang. Representin’, yo.
And I’m really struggling with how to write this delicately.
See Itty Bit’s slackjawed expression? I mean, I’ve never seen the kid interrupt his consumption of pizza for anything.
I’m all for individuality. But sometimes it needs to be tempered with the reality that some things are just not appropriate for public.
I can handle the three-foot high neon mohawk, the leather ensemble with spikes and 14” Go Go boots, the facial piercings connected by chains, and even sometimes boys with eyeliner.
But the girl who stood there in her underwear (there is no other word to describe the garment that exposed her cheekiness), with words inked onto her *ahem* bottom…
You remember my little super reader right? Do you have any idea how fast one must respond to keep a mesmerized first-grader from sounding out an entire poem that had been tattooed on someone’s posterior?
The answer would be , No, no you do not. Because that would be faster than supersonic and faster than Thor.
And in other Itty Bit news… his 6-year campaign to make me stop at every single public restroom in a tri-state area finally backfired.
In a unisex bathroom, he looked at me with a grimace on his face and said, “it smells bad in here mommy”. Then proceeded to hold his breath as long as he could. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard. And of course this is another fine specimen to add to my “Rachel’s photos of bathrooms”.
I’m hoping this lesson
This is one bathroom picture I don’t mind… the kiddo snuck out of bed early one morning and I caught him pretty much being the greatest kid in the history of ever.
Yeah. He pretty much totally didn’t get in trouble for climbing on the counter. Or for the 152 Lego pieces he generously scattered outside the bedroom door.
And because I love you, I really do… here’s my favorite snort this week:
Are you having a blogworthy week yet?