I just have random things tonight, and they’re the odd thoughts which really can’t be held together by any type of glue so that they resemble a cohesive blog post.
So I’ll just run with it.
Kind of like I’m going to run with that introductory sentence, which I feel needs a comma, but I am at a loss as to where, exactly, I should put it, because, grammatically speaking, it doesn’t need one. Yet I FEEL that it needs one, and my proofreading feelings are usually right. I get proofreading feelings like arthritic old ladies know when storms are brewing.
1. First of all, let’s talk about the Chest Cold Which Will Not Die. I caught it from Heather over the phone lines last Monday. As in MORE THAN A WEEK AGO. Heather called me last Monday and bemoaned the fact that she was down for the count on her sofa, with a blanket and the worst cold she’s ever experienced. I laid the sympathy on her real thick-like and said, “You poor dear. Can I bring you anything?” Heather needed nothing. I hung up the phone, and six hours later, I had Chest Cold ’10, otherwise known as the Chest Cold Which Will Not Die.
During the daytime hours, I simply sound like I’ve been slamming back seven packs a day for the last decade. Either that, or I sound like I ate a bowl of gravel for breakfast. When bedtime hits, though, and I lay down, the coughing starts, and it is keeping me awake.
And also? It is keeping Hubs awake, too, which is saying something, because Hubs can seldom hear anything, what with the headphones in his ears every single night, as he listens to talk-radio programs where people call in and report the fact that LO! I SAW THE MOTHER SHIP WHEN I WAS LIVING IN A TRAILER COURT IN NEVADA IN 1974, AND I EVEN HAVE A BOLT OFF OF THE LANDING GEAR IN A MAXWELL HOUSE CAN IN MY REFRIGERATOR!
(For the record, Hubs and I do not enjoy the same radio programs. At all.)
2. The cold medication that I’ve been using to combat the Chest Cold Which Will Not Die is wreaking havoc on my system at night.
On Saturday night, I dreamed that I was scalping people, but they had all volunteered for it. I had a salon, of sorts, and people would come into my salon, sit themselves down in the big twirly chair, and I would use a scalpel to remove all of their hair and most of the skin from the top of their heads. In my dream, I was terrified of seeing what was underneath the scalp, so I would tell every single one of my customers that HEY! I’LL MAKE THE BIG INCISION ALL THE WAY AROUND YOUR HEAD, BUT JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU LEAVE TO LIFT THE TOP OFF, PLEASE. Through each scalping, I made all kinds of small talk with my customers, while they sat motionless in the chairs, and they all happily chatted back to me. It didn’t appear to hurt them much at all. However, at the end of one of my workdays, my boss came in and told me that I had plum forgotten to have all of my customers sign a waiver giving me their permission to permanently remove the top portions of their heads, thus exposing the bone beneath, and he wanted me to call every single one of them, so that they could all come back into the shop and sign said papers.
I told Hubs about my dream while we were getting ready for church on Sunday morning, and he simply said, “I’ll be sleeping with the boy tonight. The boy and I are going to take shifts staying awake, so that we have a twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. Only one of us will sleep at a time, and the other one will act as a guard. Oh, and we’ll be armed, just in case you were wondering.”
Don’t ask me where this dream came from. I blame the cold medicine entirely.
3. Then, last night, I dreamed that I went to a concert put on by librarians. The audience (of which I was a member of) all piled into a giant theater, and a group of librarians was on stage. The light show was fantastic in my dream, with strobes blinking like mad and a disco ball twirling somewhere. The librarians all took turns silently reading, and they took turns shelving the books on stage, and they took turns quietly checking books in and out on stage. There was no sound. None. Zero. Zip. Zilch.
When I told Hubs about this dream, he said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. I assume you were alone in the audience.”
I lied to Hubs and said, “No. You were there with me, sitting right next to me.” He wasn’t, people. Hubs was not in this dream, but I wanted to convince him that he’d attended the “dumbest thing ever.”
Hubs replied, “Well, if I was there in your dream, then I wasn’t enjoying it! And you must’ve threatened me with a scalping if I didn’t attend the Librarian Concert.”
I think the concert I attended was every audiologist’s dream! No broken eardrums that result in continual ringing in the ears, which require grown boys to wear headphones all night long, just to shut the constant ringing out. And also? I think this is just a hopeful dream, as I am constantly surrounded by sound. I feel like the Grinch, as I’m always moaning, “NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!” The boy blasts Michael Jackson’s songs all the time; Hubs has always got AC/DC or Waylon Jennings serenading us in the background, or Glenn Beck shouting from the TV screen. Sometimes, I long for silence.
Again. Cold medicine. But this time, maybe it was combined with my dream of just having a quiet moment to myself!
4. I wore pigtails today. I don’t know why, other than the simple fact that I was suffering a bad hair day, in which the mop refused to cooperate, so I crammed it into two piggy tails, and off I went to Bible study. No one said a single word to me this morning.
After Bible study, I dashed off to teach PE, and THE HANDS! Every child in every PE class wanted to touch my pigtails and exclaim, “Miss Mama! You look so cute!” I was like an oddity who had stumbled onto a deserted island, where the natives had never seen pigtails before, and they all wanted to touch, and feel, and pull the pigtails.
In contrast, when I picked the boy up from school this afternoon, he simply said, “Nice pigtails, Mom. Are you trying out for The Wizard of Oz?”
Clearly, the boy will do just fine at winning girlfriends when he’s in high school. He has the smooth talk down to an art. He can flatter the female heart with his words.
I blame his daddy.
5. We had tacos for dinner last night.
Do y’all have the perfect combination of taco ingredients, which, when piled together, create a taco worthy of the SWEET PERFECTION AWARD?
I do. And my concoction begins with a soft flour tortilla.
I bought a brand new package at the grocery store on Sunday, while Hubs and I were there for the major haul. I put the package of tortillas in with the bread, in our bread drawer, at home.
Where we always keep them.
Hubs, who was helping me put groceries away, asked “Can I throw the old bread heels out?”
Yes. Yes, that would be helpful. Toss those old, dried-up bread heels with the blue fuzz on them into the trash, and thank you, very much!
Last night, when I went to get my soft flour tortillas out of the bread drawer, there were none. I searched the pantry, I searched the fridge, I searched the cupboards. Hubs announced, “Well, I threw some away with the old bread heels. I just assumed they’d been in the drawer forever.”
If by forever, you mean ninety stinking seconds, then yes, they’d been in the drawer for forever. Good-bye, brand new tortillas. Good-bye, perfect taco.
I had to eat a taco with a hard, crunchy shell last night, and this is not what floats my boat. Hubs and the boy insist that a crunchy corn shell on the outside is the perfect framework for a good taco, but I disagree.
Then, to add insult to injury, I had been all set on having avocado slices in my taco, too, and when I hacked into my avocado last night, it was so unripe, the pit was actually softer than the green, fleshy part. I couldn’t eat it. It was horrible, and I threw it out.
Sweet Taco Perfection did not happen for me last night, and I was sorely disappointed.
6. Let’s talk about Arrested Development. Why had I never heard of this TV show before? This weekend, Hubs and I were laying in bed with the laptop before us, surfing through Play-It-Now options on Netflix, and we saw Arrested Development. Neither of us had ever heard of it before, but it was a thirty-minute sitcom, which means it’s only twenty-two minutes long without the commercial interruptions. My adult-onset ADD can certainly handle twenty-two minute chunks of television episodes, so we watched Season 1, Episode 1, and listen, people.
Hubs and I laughed out loud, and, since Friday night, we’ve already covered HALF of Season 1, and we can hardly wait to watch the next few episodes tonight before my cold medication kicks in and sends me to Dreamland.
Clearly, this boldly announces on the World Wide Web that Hubs and I do not have refined tastes when it comes to TV entertainment. We are easily taken in by corny humor, and we laugh like untamed hyenas.
7. I know that I give Hubs a bad time on this blog, repeatedly, but listen, people. I love that fellow to pieces. He makes me laugh at least a hundred different times every day, and I adore him.
8. That’s it, people. It’s all I have tonight, and I know that it’s not much, and that it’s poorly written and rather boring, and I blame the chest cold.
The Chest Cold Which Continues To Linger and I are going to go enjoy a cup of piping hot Vitamin C juice now.