I actually just now proofread my post from last night.
I’m such a nerd. I can’t tolerate grammatical errors and typographical errors when I write. They drive me bonkers. It’s a little neurotic problem of mine, which probably stems from the fact that I was an English major in college for two years.
Indeed! I spent the first two years of college taking literature classes and courses on grammar and writing classes. I can diagram a sentence fast enough to make your head spin; I can regurgitate quite a bit of knowledge on the great classic literature that makes me sweep house when that subject is featured on Jeopardy. And, beyond winning obscene amounts of money on a game show where the topic is “Huckleberry Finn,” I really had no idea what I was going to do with an English degree, other than the obvious.
And really? I had no desire to teach English, so I switched my major, and now I teach PE.
In the words of Jack Black on School of Rock, “Those who can teach, do; those who can’t, teach gym.”
Truly, I usually quickly proofread my blog posts before hitting the bright orange Publish Post button, but last night I had a migraine coming on while I was writing. I was already trying to keep the flu-like symptoms at bay, as I had some sort of stomach bug over the weekend that was wreaking havoc on my equilibrium and my gut. Then, about the time I was finishing up last night’s post, I felt the migraine begin to sweep up the back of my head, and I knew that I had approximately thirty minutes before I was tossing my cookies into the potty, if I didn’t don my jammies and crawl into bed.
That’s why last night’s post was short and sweet, and, thankfully, not full of the twenty typographical errors that I had feared.
I went to bed before the clock in our living room had even bonged the 6:00 hour, and the nausea was settling in just fine. At some point, Hubs tip-toed into our darkened bedroom and whispered, “Do you need anything? Can I get you something?”
I genuinely felt like I was going to expire completely last night, and I had only one last wish.
Have you ever witnessed a buffalo stampede? Have you seen the reenactment of such a stampede in videos shown at visitor’s centers across the Western states? Surely you’ve seen Dances With Wolves, when the Native Americans ride out to hunt the buffalo, and the buffalo herd decides to just run for it?
That was my dying wish last night. I wanted to experience, firsthand, a buffalo stampede.
And Cats 1 and 2 did not disappoint me.
If you’ve hung out at this blog for any length of time, you surely know by now that Cat 1 and Cat 2 do not love one another. In fact, they don’t even like one another. However, when the moon has phased to a certain position each month, they do decide to let by-gones be by-gones, and they will chase one another for the sheer thrill of it. Cat 1 will chase Cat 2 clear across the house, from one end of it to the other, heading due East. When they encounter the final wall at the end of the house, they will spin, and Cat 2 will chase Cat 1, retracing the same route, but headed West.
Back and forth.
Over and over.
Until someone decides, about thirty minutes into the chase, that hey! She would probably get a lot better traction on the fine wood floors if she just stopped to sharpen her claws on the carpet on the steps.
That’s usually when Hubs gets right in the middle of the girls’ business. If one of them decides to sharpen the blades of death on the stairs, he quietly reminds them that he outweighs them numerous times over, and that it wouldn’t even cause him to break a sweat if he were to grab them both and knock their heads together.
Intimidation. That’s what Hubs shows the girls when one of them decides to sharpen things. And usually, when the intimidation has been brought into the game, the chasing stops.
But until then, SWEET MERCY! It sounds like a buffalo stampede!
And last night, with a migraine in full-blown force, the stampede started in earnest, because, apparently, the moon was precisely right for one. Back and forth, back and forth! The girls ran and they ran and they ran! Around the bed, under the bed, over the bed. Never mind the fact that I was trying to quietly recover from the Headache of Death in the bed; they used me as a launching pad in order to catch some serious air.
The running and the hissing and the launching off of my shoulder was exactly the buffalo stampede that I was hoping for in the midst of my grave illness last night. It was a beautiful thing, people. A big stomach bug. A big migraine. And a big cat chase.
Because last night’s blog post was relatively short, I tended to just give you the highlights of our weekend (the highlights being that we did nothing), and I neglected to tell you that we actually did do a couple of things.
We accomplished a major shopping haul from Walmart, during which Hubs nearly suffered a stroke, because the shopping center was packed with people, and every single one of them kept stopping her cart right in front of Hubs in order to talk to someone she knew in a neighboring aisle. I could tell that Hubs was wishing that he had some serious laser vision superhero power, because he wanted nothing more than to vaporize all the filled-to-the-brim carts plugging up the aisles.
While we were in Walmart, we ran into Hubs’ buddy, Ryan. Ryan is 6-foot-5, and his arms are big enough to hunt buffalo without a weapon. He grew up on a ranch, so he’s spent plenty of time throwing hay bales and wrestling steers. I want to give him a bumper sticker that says, “Yes, these ARE my biceps, and no, I will not help you move your sofa.” (Really, he’s just slightly less tough than Hubs is.)
No matter. On Saturday, right there in front of the refrigerated cheese, I sweetly asked Ryan, “Hey, can you come over this afternoon and help Hubs move our sofa?” And because Ryan is a gentleman, he agreed to do it. I didn’t tell him that I needed the sofa to go down seventeen stairs. I saved that little surprise for Ryan when he got to our house.
But really, the Walmart trip and the sofa moving both happened on Saturday, so clearly I didn’t spend the entire day reading The Kitchen Help and looking ahead to see how it all ended.
And then Hubs decided to grill a rack of ribs on Saturday night which was exactly the same size as the one that the waitress puts on the side of Fred Flintstone’s car. He meticulously watched those ribs; he meticulously sprayed those ribs with a special potion mixture throughout the entire grilling time. When they were finally close to being done, he made the grand announcement to me: “The ribs are seconds away from sweet perfection!” That was my cue to cook the corn on the cob and the Parmesan broccoli, which take only minutes to accomplish. Apparently, the ribs stayed on the grill while I was busy in the kitchen. When the corn and the broccoli were finished, Hubs brought the ribs inside.
We had a pile of ash for dinner.
No kidding. The ribs were so cremated, the bones disintegrated. We had to sweep black ash up off of our kitchen floor after we did the dishes. Hubs kept saying, “I don’t know where I went wrong! They went from perfect to destroyed in the blink of my eye!” The poor fellow walked around all evening, mumbling to himself and apologizing for the ribs.
I told him, “We all have to ruin dinner once in our lives. Do you remember that new recipe for hot dog soup that I tried back in 2002?” That’s all I had to say. Hubs shivered and convulsed uncontrollably, and he replied, “Mmm-hmm. I’m not sure my pile of blackened ash was anywhere near as bad as that hot dog soup was.”
He’s right of course. The Hot Dog Soup of ’02 was the crowning glory in the category of Dinners Gone Bad.
And listen, people. On Friday afternoon, I read a blog where the gal linked to a video from You Tube. I laughed so hard at it, I was in serious danger of creating a puddle. I laughed and laughed and laughed. The blog’s writer posted the video (which shows an ibex, who is seriously worked up more than Cats 1 and 2 could ever hope to be), and she stated that sometimes when she’s parenting, she achieves the Disney princess personality, where she makes motherhood look flawless and effortless and easy, and where she sings sweet hymns to her son and loves him tenderly. But then, she went on to say that sometimes she’s just like the ibex in this video, where she becomes surly and growly and full of spit. And really? Isn’t that the way we all parent? Her post was very sweet, and I closed out of it thinking, “I am not alone in always striving to be the Disney princess mother, but sometimes failing and being the grouchy ibex.”
On Saturday morning, while we were contemplating the effort that it would take to actually get out of bed and shower, I told the boy, “Go! Run like the wind! Get Daddy’s iPad! Mama has a video to show you.” The boy was quick to return to our bed with the iPad, and right there, nestled in with Hubs and the boy, I called up the video and I showed it to them.
And SWEET MERCY! They both howled with delight. The boy began slapping my leg, as he flopped all over our bed, with his head thrown back in outrageous laughter, and then he had to replay the video approximately fourteen times before he could get on with his day.
So, because this little video clip has brought our family such great joy, I’m going to share it with you. I have no idea if I’m infringing on any copyright laws by posting this video on my blog; if I don’t write a post tomorrow evening, then please bake a cake with a fingernail file in it and send it to the Small Town County Jail.
And also? This entire video is in Spanish, and my very limited Spanish vocabulary includes the following words: Taco Bell, burrito, guacamole, and uno, dos, tres. So if you speak Spanish, and you watch this video, and you gasp with shock because HELLO! The man is swearing worse than any pirate sailor of yesteryear could ever hope to do, then let me know, and I’ll delete the link, because this is a family blog, y’all.
So without further ado, I give you the ibex.
You laughed, didn’t you?
Hubs practically rolled out of bed and landed on the floor when he first saw that ibex spitting, and, since Saturday morning, Hubs has been walking around our house making braying noises that oh-so-very-much-closely resemble the sounds the ibex was yelling. I tried to capture Hubs on video, but he saw through my secret plans, and he knew that he’d end up the victim of a video comparison on my blog.
Hubs is quite smart that way, so he managed to successfully elude my video camera.
At any rate, I have fully recovered from the migraine, and, remarkably enough, the flu bug is gone as well. The cats are quiet tonight, and I may stay up later this evening than my 6:00 and 7:34 bedtimes of this weekend.
I should tell you that last weekend, when Yoda Joe, the tropical frog, was whining loudly all night in protest to the kitchen, who had failed to deliver the crickets to his cage, I asked Hubs, “Would it be alright to fill his little tank with mud and stuff him into our refrigerator? I was thinking that maybe we could stimulate a cold winter, and that maybe he’d just bury himself in the mud on the top shelf by the Gatorade and hibernate. And if he was hibernating, then he couldn’t whine and disturb my sleep until at least March!”
Hubs never answered my question, because he looked at me and said, “Wouldn’t it be fantastic to hibernate?! I would love to crawl into bed in early October and get out of bed at the end of April. I can’t think of anything better than hibernating, unless it would be the Broncos winning the Super Bowl in the same year that the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup.”
With all of my early bedtimes this weekend, I almost felt like I was hibernating, and I don’t think it’s for me. I have entirely too much stuff to get done to go to bed for seven months.