Hubs has ventured off to a distant city this week, which sports things like a mall, a Barnes & Noble, and multiple Starbucks shacks (clearly, he’s not in Small Town, USA anymore), and he has left me behind to be a single mother for a long string of days.
And this hasn’t been all bad, because it ultimately means that I have not had to cook, simply because the resident nine-year-old is more than happy to settle down at the dinner table with a big bowl of Froot Loops and call it good. This is working well for me, because I was not blessed with a love for creating dinner like Julia. Just looking at the cover of a French cookbook would be enough to send me scurrying for smelling salts; actually opening it would probably bring on a marathon of migraines.
And we’ve had one of those days today, that happen only when you realize that you are the ONLY parent on duty, and you’re the ONLY parent around to utter the words, “Please do not write your name in toothpaste on the bathroom mirror again. I don’t actually care if you were doing it in cursive; just stop it!”
And speaking of that, the boy informed me, “You know, Mom, I know a bunch of different languages now. I know English, and Beknezar (who has recently moved to the United States from far, far away and ended up in the boy’s classroom last year) taught me some Russian words, and now I know cursive, too.”
Yes. He knows English. And some Russian words. And some Cursive. Perhaps there’s a Rosetta Stone CD that could bring him even further along.
At any rate, when the loopy toothpaste lettering was over and done with this morning, I went back to my own bathroom to dry my hair, and apparently there is a rather important piece inside my hair dryer that has broken itself plum off, so that it rattles around when you shake the dang thing. I came to this conclusion quickly this morning when I turned the hair dryer on, pointed it at my head, and shrieked in horror as it made sounds similar to what one would hear if she filled her garbage disposal with rocks.
And then it smoked.
And a couple of small flames shot out of it.
Needless to say, it’s officially time to lay this ConAir to rest, because igniting my hair is not an option.
At any rate, Hubs is away learning a new software program, which he will install at the sheriff’s office when he gets back, which will help them book their criminals a little easier. He has taken three deputies with him, so that they, too, can learn to use the software, and I’d like to say that they’ve been working hard at their class, but the honest truth is that I suspect there has been far more playing going on with these four than anything else.
And Hubs began complaining on the phone, saying, “I’m the only one in our group who isn’t a deputy, so this means that I’m the only one who isn’t packing heat. I want to pack heat, too! Everyone has a gun under their shirts! This isn’t fair! I need to get a license to have a concealed weapon.”
I’m going to offer him the ConAir. It’s bulky, but it can throw a flame two feet out there.
It may even be able to melt some cursive toothpaste off a bathroom mirror.