I ordered a flower arrangement yesterday to be sent to a funeral today. The woman said they'd really try to deliver is that evening, but if not, they'd deliver it in the morning. This was fine, but I thought it was weird. A couple of weeks ago I ordered an arrangement for a funeral at 11:30 AM and it was delivered within an hour. I wondered why the hold-up.
Update: Spoiler alert. A couple of the comments reveal the Soylent secret (gasp!), so if you were planning to run right out and rent it for your "romantic" Valentine's movie tonight, don't read the comments. :) (Ha! as if it's available at your local movie place. The movie is older than I am, and as my sister would tell you, I'm ancient.)
Not sure how to spell it, but it rhymes with "pushed." (Update: Well, whataya know. It's a real word that can be pronounced to rhyme with "pushed" or with a regular "oo" sound, like "boo.")
Two nights ago, Seth squeezed in between Bob and me on the loveseat and, apparently, one of us shifted our weight and started to squish the poor little guy. "Squooshed!"
It's quite a versatile word, too, because the next morning I zipped his zipper way up under his chin. Seth hates that, but it was coooooold outside, so mommy instincts took over. He promptly cried, "Squooshed! Squooshed!" I relented.
Yesterday he bit me. Can you believe it? My sweet baby boy bit me, and even though it was through my t-shirt, he broke the skin. And then he seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction.
It had already been a very hard night for Seth last night, and at 2 AM, moments after he finally fell asleep, I couldn't leave well enough alone. He was holding a little truck that plays songs. I didn't want it to wake him, so I took the truck out of his hands and set it aside. In the process, I accidentally pressed my arm against his face and woke him.
Exhausted and distraught, he started screaming. I mean, screaming. He really wasn't even awake. Did I trigger a nightmare? Then he started thrashing, and wham! the back of his head smashed into my nose.
Instant tears. "Owwwwwwww!" I half shouted, half growled. It hurt like the devil. I jumped up. Did he break my nose?
I ran into the hallway. Bob scrambled out of bed.
"What happened?"
"He head-butted me!"
"Let me see."
I removed my hands, waiting for a gasp of horror or at least a look of surprise. Instead I got, "Yeah, it's bleeding."
Well, duh! These ain't red tears gushing into my hands.
Thankfully, I didn't say that. If I had, it would've been the pain talking.
I ran to the bathroom while Bob tended to a still-screaming Seth. I expected to see blood everywhere, but really, there was just a little bit on my hand. After the one initial gush, there was just a trickle. I was embarrassed that only seconds before I thought it was broken.
My nose is so sore. I never knew how often I absentmindedly I touch my nose. Do all people touch their noses this often, or am I just some kind of nose-touching, germ-spreading fiend?
36% of you only watch the Super Bowl to see the commericals. 29% of you aren't interested in "bowling." 29% rooted for the Giants (congratulations!) 7% rooted for the Patriots (too bad, so sad)
One of the greatest feelings in the world is when I finish singing a song to Seth, who always listens in rapt attention all the while despite my terrible voice and utter tone deafness, and he looks at me and says, "'Gin."
His favorite song right now is "This Little Light of Mine."
