Connor, to Sam, who just stuck the frayed end of the lace of Connor's hockey skate in his mouth in order to moisten it, thereby aiding him in maneuvering it through the eyelet: You shouldn't do that. You don't know where it's been.
Sam, with his nose wrinkled: Now I do.
Also? Connor should totally be an architectural engineer, yo.
Sam is at the computer, dealing with finances (read: harassing me about receipts from four months ago because he doesn't know whether the purchase from quikcheck should qualify as "groceries" or "eating out" or maybe a little bit of both, and, if so, how much of each and this is really important and could I please do a better job at keeping track of these things? Can't I just remember what I purchased in May?)
I am lying in bed, reading myself to sleep.
Sam is staring at a transaction from the bookstore. "Okay, you said it was two books."
"Two books. One is mine, one was a gift. They were the same price." It feels like we've had this conversation before. Twice.
"That's doesn't make sense. If that's true, then each book cost $12.20."
I look up curiously from my book. "That's not right. Books end in point-nine-nine or point-nine-five. Sometimes kids' books end in point-four-nine. Your math is wrong."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, yes it is. Is that without tax and with our discount?"
He gives me the stink-eye. "Yes, twenty percent off."
"We got thirty percent off." I return the stink-eye.
"Oh." clickity clickity clickity "Nope. Still wrong. They could not have each been the same price. Because then they would have been $13.94, and you just said that wasn't possible."
I get out of bed in search of the damn receipt. "I'm going to kill you. In your sleep. Don't fall asleep first tonight."
Ever catch your finger nails in the little holes that are on the inside of the washing machine when you're unloading it? Hurts like hell, right?
No?
Just me then?
*sigh*
I suck.
Sarah: And don't wrinkle them up! I just ironed them!
Connor: Okey-dokie, artichoke-y!
Ethan: She's not an artichoke-y!
Connor: Yes she is. She's an artichoke dressed up as a grown up.
Ethan: No, she's not! An artichoke is a frog!
Connor: *scoff* No, it's not! It's a fish!
Sam and I sat watching the preview for the upcoming season finale of Monk last night. It featured the latest guest star.
Sam: Who hasn't been on Monk?
Me, after short contemplation: I haven't.
Sam, after his own contemplation, with a slight look of disgust: That was unnecessary.
Damn. I must be losing my touch. I hadn't even tried for the double entendre.
I have no life. Yeah, yeah. Loving husband, great kids. Check and check. I am wife and mother. Also, I'm kinda cool, and kinda funny, kinda sometimes. And, also? I'm even better with alcohol. Of course, my husband is the only one who gets to enjoy this side of me. This is because, while my schedule if filled (which is particularly surprising because only a dozen of those hours are currently of the paying variety), it ain't with anything fun for me.
Coming up? We've got soccer. And pictures for soccer. And hockey. Oh, and more hockey. There are those nights at PTA! Doctors appointments- which we will come to, by the way.
Oh, wait! There are those couple nights a week where I close the place down, baby! And by close the place down, I mean I clock out at midnight, and my boss sets the alarm as we walk out the door.
And the most shocking thing of all? I'm totally satisfied. (Holy crap, did you know it was possible that a mom could be satisfied? Without prescription drugs? Totally true.) The thing that bothers me about my lack of social life in the extreme is that it doesn't bother me.
Probably a sign of deep depression.
That I will blame on my husband.
Because that's the kind of bitch I am.
