It's Like Yoplait With Those Damn Yogurt Lids

So a certain company is offering what they consider a great, generous donation. "1 coupon* = 1 meal". Huh? Oh! For every coupon I use (from the generous company) they donate a meal to the worthy charity! Wait. What's that asterisk? Let's read further. For every coupon I use from a specific flyer, I "actively help GC donate a meal through WC". What's "actively help"? Where the hell is that asterisk?

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* Coupon value to WC equals $.0625.

How the hell do you feed a person on that???

God, We Work Well Together

It's the kind of thing that only happens when you're already running late. I dash out the door to the garage, only to come up short because Sam's car was still in its space, Sam sitting behind the wheel. Just as I'm trying to figure out why he is still home when I had thought he had left ten minutes before, I notice the neighbor dog in the driveway.

"Oh crap!" I yell, and jump back into the house, slamming the door shut. It's not that I don't like the dog. He's kinda cool, always friendly. Frankly, he can't hold himself together. He gets too excited and jumps all over me and himself, falling and whimpering because he's so excited. This means his doggy smell ends up on my pants and hands and blouse and hair, so I go around smelling like mutt for the rest of the day. Not what I intend for work.

So I crack the door back open, and start yelling at Sam. I'm not entirely sure whether he can hear me (yes I am), but I figure my loud voice and frantic waving will highlight the gravity of the situation.

"Get the damn dog!" I scream, pointing behind his car. Sam starts the car. Big Puppy tilts his head, curious. "No! That didn't work! He's still there! Get the damn dog!" Sam taps the horn once. Big Puppy wags his tail. "No! Still there! Geez, I need to go to work! I'm late. Get. the. damn. DOG! And why are you still here?" I take a step out the door, and Big Puppy takes notice. Crap. I duck back in.

"I need to go to work, too!" comes Sam's response.

"Yeah!" I say. "Great reason to get the damn dog!"

"He accosted me at the mailbox. I've been petting him for ten minutes." It's a little muffled by the glass, but I know this is what he has just confessed.

"So this is your fault? Screw you! Get the dog! I'm late!"

He finally gets out of his car and goes to the dog. When I see Big Puppy move away from Sam's open garage door, I swing the door open wide, and make a run for my own car, not daring to open my spot's garage door until I've made it safely inside. I get my car door open, and Sam says "He's behind your car now." He's way too calm for his own good.

"Well, get him the hell out of the way! C'mon!" I get the garage door open and my car started. Sam gives me the okay absolutely no signal, and I start backing out, praying to not run over this dog. Sam has still given me no indication as to where this dog is, and I hope my first is not a thump-thump. So slow slow slow I go. I finally get the car pointed in the right direction, and there is Big Puppy, standing thirty feet away.

I'll kill Sam when I get home. I'm running late, right now.

Adventures in Soccer Attendance

As we were standing at the counter at a snack bar, the man next to us, searching for the English term for "hot chocolate" from his native Spanish, asked for "a choc-oh-laht", a decent compromise of "chock-lit" and "chock-oh-lah-tay".

This stuck in my brain (of course), and, as we were walking to the car, I started singing a song from Dora (because I'm cool like that), which consisted of "Baté (bah-tay), baté, chocolaté. Baté, baté, chocolaté. Mix the chocolate, chocolaté...". I ignored the what-a-dork sneers my kids shot me.

We climbed into the car and everyone started securing their seat belts. I start the engine, and Ethan pipes up, "Wait! I'm not buckled! Buck-oh-lah-tay!"

Upon coming home from another soccer game, I said to Sam, "Connor took a ball in the junk."

"Yeah? Was he wearing a cup?" He turned and looked to Connor.

"No. Noone wears a cup. My junk is fine now."

"Yeah?" Sam said. "Well, you might not always be lucky. One day you might want to have children."

Ethan, across the room, scoffs. "He couldn't have children anyway! He's a boy!"

Thank You, Honey. That's Just What I Wanted Immortalized.

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.

I am (not to be confused with "have") a little behind.

Also? Connor should totally be an architectural engineer, yo.

Can You Imagine What Happens When I Lose a Receipt?

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."

It's Called the Tub, Dummy.

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.