Giselle and I were getting in the car this morning, to take her to school you see, and she's musing about how she's going to be eight years old soon. So I say to her, "Yeah, you and Harrison both. It never ends...you just never stop getting older..." and then she interjects in a teasing voice, "Well, ya do when ya die!" ohh ho HO! "Well you got me there!" Oh she thought she was so tricky. ;)
We were at Barnes & Noble yesterday, standing at the cash register...and it's Valentine's season and so all the Good Sex books and slinky calendars have been trotted out to the impulse-buy areas. We communicate with the kids about these things at a level that's appropriate for them, so it wasn't like I was rolling up into a red-faced apoplexy as we walked up to the counter. But then, as I was paying for the books, I turn to see Giselle with a concentrated look on her face, trying to sound out the title to the little Karma Sutra mini-booklets, staring her in the face. I was about to roll my eyes and let slide with a sigh at the fortuitous placement of the booklets, but thought better of it. It's just that I had never given thought to how to explain transcendental, time-lapse, pretzelized, entanglements in responsible terms. I have to learn to plan for these things. Apparently, it was an odd enough title that she didn't give it any more thought.
Amanda says Harrison caught her mumbling to herself while doing the dishes one afternoon. "What was that Mom?"..."Oh, sorry honey, I was just talking to myself."..."That's OK Mom, I do that too sometimes." This prodded Amanda's curiosity, "You do? What do you say to yourself?" To which Harrison answers, "Sometimes when you get mad at me, I say, **long gruffy sniff** 'What's WRONG with MOM!'...but inside my head."
Hahahah
In other news, I continue to be worried about the people who work in my office building. First of all, I have to wonder how HARD it is to land toilet paper in the kamode? Really. How hard is it? More times than not, when I shuffle into the stall, there's balled-up tissue laying on the floor under the seat. If you are reading this, and you do this, THERE IS NO EXCUSE. Ugh. Are people practicing their make-believe basketball shots? "That's two points!"..."aaaand the next one doesn't go in! That defense is tough, he's gonna have a hard time making a comeback from that one Bob!" Oh, and then there was the long, shiny yet crispified booger smear on the tile above the urinal? Come ON. I guess I just figure I work with a bunch of white-collar stiffs, and corporate espionage and embezzlement would be more common choices on the socially-reprehensible menu. And I'm not saying that soiling up the bathroom is a blue-collar gig, I'm just saying I didn't figure I worked with the brown-collar crowd. :P As I stood there holding back a gag, I must admit I wasn't proud that mental response to the question, "Man how long's it going to take for someone to clean that thing up?" was answered quickly by, "ees no my yob maing."
It lasted a week.
I feel for the housekeeping people. ...but apparently not enough to lend a helping hand :'(
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