Hush

It is quiet at my house. Dillon is sleeping. With his glorified man-purse stuffed with puzzle pieces.

Daniel is at a friend's house watching The Game.

I just ate a bowl of grapes, and am contemplating a chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream nightcap.

The washer is on spin cycle, but that is the only sound I can hear besides the keys of my keyboard. There is none of the television that usually fills up the background. There is none of the screaming, crying, or constant teeth grinding that I hear all day at work. There is no cell phone ringing, no radio, and no siren or traffic.

Just quiet.

And I think I'll take it while I can get it.

New guy

There aren't very many shows that Daniel and I watch on a regular basis, but for the past few years, we have watched Law and Order: SVU. (Because, in case you didn't know it, I am Olivia Benson.)

This season has brought the addition of newcomer Adam Beach, who apparently went to acting school with Ice-T and the guy who played Steve Urkel. Seriously? We are considering quitting the show because of him. It is so aggravating!

Didn't they have auditions? Did they not notice that the guy kept reading his lines off the palm of his hand? Did they not notice that his facial expressions are forced and vary only between "contemplative" and "aggressive?" Did they not notice that he makes the "s" sound clenching his jaw and breathing, so that everything sounds like "shhh?"

I think we are gonna have to retire S(h)VU in favor of something else. Any suggestions?

Men are from Mars?

Dillon had a stomach virus a couple of weeks ago.

Horrible. That is all I can say. He has only thrown up five times in his life, and four of those times have been on a Tuesday. So when he was especially cranky last Tuesday, I should have known.

Cause what do we do on Tuesdays??? THROW UP.

About once an hour, he would sit up, get really fussy, then offer up some remnant of a past meal. After about ten minutes, he would collapse in tears on the couch, lethargic until the next round hit him.

Poor baby. And poor me!

I was using old towels - I spread one on his lap, and made him sit on one. Of course, I had a growing pile of laundry. Daniel came in from work and said, "Amanda. Use a trash can!"

I had already endured four hours of this, and was loath to accept advice from a new arrival. However, I obediently got a trash can and held it patiently under Dillon's chin.

For about seven seconds. Then Dillon mustered all the energy he had left and shoved it away, croaking, "Nothankyoumama!"

So we were back to the towels. I had already run a load through the laundry, and so they were fresh in the dryer, ready to absorb more rejected breakfast.

I got Dillon ready for bed and laid him down. I rubbed his back, steeling myself for a long night. I tried to ready the room for frequent visits.

"Do you need anything?" Daniel asked. I told him to bring me towels to leave in a stack by Dillon's bed.

Out he walks, and returns a few minutes later. My husband. Trash-can-man. With a big pile of towels. Only they aren't towels. They are huge bath sheets that we never use. Fresh from the store. They wrap around my body two times.

He places them on the floor and I stare at him, disbelieving.

"Seriously? That is your solution? He's not throwing up THAT much! And how many times do you think I want to use the same towel? And why would I want to use the nice ones? It is PUKE!"

He tucked his tail and went into the living room. Exhaustion had caught up with me. The hilarity of his offering struck me, and I was laughing so hard that tears were pouring down my face. This is the difference between moms and dads.

Well, that and certain anatomical differences. But mostly the difference in logic.

That's my boy

This morning's conversation:

"Dillon, are you hungry?"

"I hungee, Mama! I hungee!"

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"I wan see bah in a bow!" (I want cereal bar in a bowl)

"Okay."

"Wait, Mama! WAIT! I note wan see bah! I wan CHOKIT ICE CWEAM in a bow!"

Oh, yeah? That does sound way better! You are your mother's son, aren't you?

Pregnancy issues?

I don't get weird cravings and I don't have morning sickness.

But what I do have is almost worse. At least, psychologically. It is an agonizing, unexplainable, invisible ITCH between all of my fingers. I am entering my third month of itchy fingers. And it is keeping me up at night. Seriously!

I wake up nightly clawing at the skin between my fingers. At NOTHING. Cause there is nothing there! Just invisible itch.

Before you start spouting remedies, lemme tell you what I have tried:

1. plain lotion with socks on my hands to keep myself from scratching
2. Lamisil, some sort of athlete's foot cream in case it was an invisible fungus
3. Preparation H, in case it was a hemorrhoid between my fingers
4. Benedryl cream, in case it was an allergy
5. Aquaphor, in case it was just really dry skin
6. nothing, in case it was an overload of all of the above
7. I only use unscented, plain soap for hand washing
8. no finger jewelry
9. drying hands on paper towels instead of cloth towels
10. drying hands on cloth towels instead of paper towels

NOW.

Do you have any suggestions? For my sanity?

Scratched that itch

I can only handle the giant flea market atmosphere about once a year. Today was the day that I put on my tennis shoes and a backpack, tucked a wad of cash in my pocket, and set out to admire all things crafty and bedazzled.

We (Daniel came along) actually did well - I found a few Christmas gifts as well as some home decor for myself. I found a bargain on a tall jewelry cabinet, which I have been really wanting. I ate a corn dog and drank some expensive lemonade. By three o' clock, thisbaby was protesting my physical exertion and I was ready for a nap.

We hiked back to the car and loaded up our purchases. We zipped out of the parking pasture (hey, don't say we aren't sophisticated in Texas) and pulled alongside a row of shops to pick up the heavy afore-mentioned jewelry cabinet that the store owner was holding for us.

I sat in the van while Daniel went to manhandle our new furniture. I watched the crowds of people spilling from vendor to vendor, treasures in hand. One of the more popular things for sale all over the market were various shapes and sizes of rustic metal that you are supposed to hang on your wall. People were snapping these things up like starving goats going after tin cans.

In the rearview mirror, I saw a woman with a cart stuffed with packages, a huge rusty metal sculpture balanced precariously atop her purchases. It hung off either end of her cart and it is a wonder she wasn't gouging out the eyes of young children and short adults that walked past her.
I watched her as she approached the van in slow-motion.

She pushed her cart and paid attention to everything but what she should have.

ssssssSSSSSSKKKRRRREEEEEEE!!!

That sound went on forever. My eyes met hers as she brought her cart even with the passenger window of the van. Her eyes were huge when she saw that the van was occupied. She reached her hand out and cupped it around the rusty tip of her "art" and bustled away into the crowd.

I stuck my head out the door to survey the damage. Of course, it looked like she had just keyed my van. There is a huge scrape about three feet long that extends down the side door. Please remember that I just got this van in July, and pardon my nerdiness, but I LOVE THIS VAN.

Of course, I tattled to Daniel as soon as he came out of the shop with my huge jewelry cabinet. He chased the woman down and told her that she had just managed to damage our vehicle because she was careless, and perhaps she should pay a little more attention.

She walked back to the van with us, saying repeatedly that she had not scraped the car and that she had covered the tip of the metal specifically so that it wouldn't scrape. She saw the damage, and said, "Oh! I didn't do that. I was shielding your car with my hand."

Right.

Daniel took the keys and walked around the car to leave. He saw no point in arguing with her. I said, "Oh, so you didn't do that to my car?" She said, "There is no way I could have!"

What? "No way?" Like physically impossible? Like it violates the laws of God and nature? Let's get Einstein involved here, cause I am pretty sure there is a way, lady.

I didn't want money or her insurance information. I merely wanted acknowledgment. An apology would have been nice, but she was above that. She was too good to say that she was sorry for being careless.

It chapped me the whole way home. Not because my car is scraped, but because where is the decency? Who said that she was better than me and didn't have to acknowledge her transgressions?

I hope I remember this next time I hurt someone. Sometimes "I am sorry" doesn't do much, but sometimes it makes all the difference in the world.

On that note, we left the flea market. I had enough of being around people.

NaBloPoMo n' guilt

I can't do it this year. Obviously. Cause it is the 2nd of the month. I have already failed.

But if you are bored, read my archives. I totally did it last year.

And, by the way, it is my birthday. And you should know that. It is today. Not tomorrow. Today is Friday.

*Ahem. *