Tuesday, February 24, 2009


So much excitement in the last few weeks, including, but not limited to all four kids and Jon coming down with the flu. The highlight of this episode was Drama Queen throwing up over the edge of the top bunk of her bed, soaking with vomit the AP History application that has been causing us so much grief. Isn't that a beautiful symmetry? She also liberally splashed Miss G's sheets and vocabulary book and probably Miss G herself who was in bed at the time. Several other textbooks scattered on the floor near the bed probably wear invisible puke splashes but surely our school district has a "don't ask don't tell" policy about that sort of thing. Mr. McP, another top bunk denizen, also threw up in his bed. There is a lesson here, surely. But I don't want to be one of those moms who has nothing better to blog about than her children's vomit.

Things got less amusing when Drama Queen developed pneumonia. That was not a fun day, particularly getting her prescriptions filled. I had to wait in the sort of line that extends so far down the laxative aisle that you can't even see the pharmacy counter and you spend your time worrying that you're not even in the pharmacy line at all but are just milling around with a bunch of people who have rectal issues. Eventually, however, it was my turn. The clerk went to look for my prescriptions. They had been faxed in three hours previously. Of course they weren't there. Why should I expect a pharmacy with a stupid motto like "for all the ways you care" to be able to fill two simple scripts within three hours? The clerk began thumbing through a bible-sized stack of faxes next to the phone. She thumbed and she thumbed and she thumbed while I fumed and I fumed and I fumed and finally found mine near the bottom. Twenty minutes, she said, so I left.

Jon returned to the pharmacy twenty minutes later and when he got home, we realized that while he had paid for both scripts, they had neglected to give him one of them. At that point I felt a primal scream was appropriate.

In other news an 8th grade picture of me surfaced on facebook. It was not put there by me.

Here is the picture. I'm in the bottom row. The only girl. I had do-it-yourself bangs and braces. I suspect my barrettes matched my sweater. Apparently, fair isle sweaters were the thing that year.

Then there was the message in the cheese. I was baking pizza and one of them came out of the oven with the word "fin" spelled out in strands of burned mozzarella, thus.

"Fin" is French for "end" which my French-taking children decided meant an omen that I should not bake any more pizzas that night. But I had one more round of dough! I ignored the warning and what do you think happened? The pepperoni and cheese slid off the pizza and onto the pizza stone, forcing me to put my bare hand into a 550-degree oven in order to fix the mess, thus.

Those weird strands in the air are my hair.

The next time cheese speaks to me, I will heed it.

And finally, for those craving some bunny cuteness:


  1. Thanks for the updates! I'm sorry about your sick family, but what a fun surprise in both the bread and your bed!

  2. "The next time cheese speaks to me, I will heed it."

    Oh, how I've missed thee.

    Sorry about the puke and all the other nastiness.

  3. LOL, "message in the cheese." Always heed the cheese, sister!