Once upon a weekend trip with Grampa and Gramma to the deep pine-scented forest, most of us were basking in the ultra-rare opportunity to do absolutely nothing, but Pixie was, as mythologics tend to be, overflowing with livingness, and wanting to explore.
Because of Pixie's size, or more precisely the lack thereof, she was only allowed to go where we could see her. (Everybody knows how easy it was for Captain Hook to capture Tinkerbell, and we didn't want our own pixie tossed into some pirate's lantern.) The density of the foliage made the prescribed hiking distance unsatisfactory to Pixie. She kept returning to the campfire begging us to go with her along the trails she had found, so she could travel farther and we could see the wonderful worlds she had spied.
Pixie pleas being so difficult to ignore, we were eventually persuaded to abandon our poking of the dying breakfast-time fire for the lure of pursuing the unknown treasures of the woods. "Okay, Pixie, show us your trails."
We started at a little bare spot of earth looking into a little parting spot of the bushes. A few footsteps into the people-sized walkway, though, vines began to wrap around our ankles and branches started grasping at our legs. "Are you sure this is a trail?"
Pixie was certain she'd found a great path to hike, so we kept following. Bushes bit our knees. Branches slapped our cheeks. "Pixie, I don't think this is a trail." Pixie flitted among the greenery like an exotic butterfly in a tropical wonderland. The rest of us struggled through the brush like harassed castaways in a hostile jungle.
Whether because she was so much smaller than the rest of us, or because she is after all a mythological creature and so can blend with nature much more readily than we mere mortals can, Pixie returned to the embers of our campfire after our venture even more lively than when we left. The rest of us collapsed into our camp chairs bruised and scraped and exhausted, and someone was missing an eye. We looked like we'd tried to fight Jeremy Renner. To this day, when Pixie wants to go exploring, everyone asks, "On a REAL trail, or a Pixie trail?"
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Unwanted Hair Removal
Does the word "unwanted" refer to the hair, or the removal?
I tried to tell myself my mustache wasn't that bad. Then Hunneypunkin in a rare display of Imperial storm trooperhood threatened to hide me from the public until I did something about it.
So I tried to wax my facial hair, but even though I obeyed the instructions like a saint, all that got me was a mustache full of wax. I tracked down all the vain people I knew to get some pointers, but the only thing I learned was, "Don't buy the stuff from Wal*Mart." Which of course, is precisely where my little package of pain infliction had come from.
I gave up on the wax and resorted to tweezers. Unfortunately my mother was Rapunzel and my old man was a Wookie, resulting in us children being fur-bearing mammals. That's all well and good for my brothers, but it's rather unfavorable for me, what with my being a girl and all. By the time I had tweezed a square millimeter of the surface area of my face it was tomorrow already.
Tweezing was quite literally a pain so I reverted to ignoring my whiskers until I could see them in the mirror even without corrective lenses. Then I chopped them off with scissors.
Rapunzel has suggested I just shave, but after Hunneypunkin advised Lefty and The Precious, all in good fun, to "ask Mama" how to manage peach fuzz when they reached the wonderful world of teenage, I refuse to take a razor to my face.
I toyed with the idea of starting some sort of new trend with women's facial hair, but I'm just not famous enough for that to be feasible. Yet. Plus, I can't really pull off a heart-stopping goatee as well as someone like, say, Jeremy Renner.
Yesterday after maybe drinking too much (caramel mocha I mean), I opted to try waxing one more time. When I'd had enough of ripping hairs from my face using strips of wax, I ripped out a few more using tweezers. Then I scissored the growth that remained. I still spurned shaving. Today I have red, sore, and slightly swollen bald spots in the stubble surrounding my lips. Is this worth it?
I tried to tell myself my mustache wasn't that bad. Then Hunneypunkin in a rare display of Imperial storm trooperhood threatened to hide me from the public until I did something about it.
So I tried to wax my facial hair, but even though I obeyed the instructions like a saint, all that got me was a mustache full of wax. I tracked down all the vain people I knew to get some pointers, but the only thing I learned was, "Don't buy the stuff from Wal*Mart." Which of course, is precisely where my little package of pain infliction had come from.
I gave up on the wax and resorted to tweezers. Unfortunately my mother was Rapunzel and my old man was a Wookie, resulting in us children being fur-bearing mammals. That's all well and good for my brothers, but it's rather unfavorable for me, what with my being a girl and all. By the time I had tweezed a square millimeter of the surface area of my face it was tomorrow already.
Tweezing was quite literally a pain so I reverted to ignoring my whiskers until I could see them in the mirror even without corrective lenses. Then I chopped them off with scissors.
Rapunzel has suggested I just shave, but after Hunneypunkin advised Lefty and The Precious, all in good fun, to "ask Mama" how to manage peach fuzz when they reached the wonderful world of teenage, I refuse to take a razor to my face.
I toyed with the idea of starting some sort of new trend with women's facial hair, but I'm just not famous enough for that to be feasible. Yet. Plus, I can't really pull off a heart-stopping goatee as well as someone like, say, Jeremy Renner.
Yesterday after maybe drinking too much (caramel mocha I mean), I opted to try waxing one more time. When I'd had enough of ripping hairs from my face using strips of wax, I ripped out a few more using tweezers. Then I scissored the growth that remained. I still spurned shaving. Today I have red, sore, and slightly swollen bald spots in the stubble surrounding my lips. Is this worth it?
Monday, February 25, 2013
Underrf'd and Infraer'd
I have a debilitating fear of somehow having to read aloud in public and coming across the word "infrared".
There really should be a hyphen in there. Infra-dash-red. Without a hyphen, I see a word that rhymes with "impaired".
The trouble is, most verbs are made past-tense by the suffix "d" or "ed". Therefore, when I see the word infrared, with its absence of dash, I see the past tense of the verb infrare. Of course I know there is no such word as infrare, but this merely adds to my momentary confusion as I try to discern how light becomes, in fact, frare'd or in-frare'd.
I learned I'm not the only person whose mind goes there when my good buddy Grammar Patrol read a newspaper article about underfed horses. He was trying to figure out how exactly one derfs or underfs a horse. Grammar Patrol's grandson quipped that in Washington State, all horses must be properly derfed. Now tell me, should there not be a dash? Under-dash-fed.
You're familiar with my image. Tough and cool. It would not look tough and cool to publicly mispronounce infrared. This is also why it would be completely detrimental for me to meet Jeremy Renner in for real life. I'd totally lose my tough and cool. I'd just look underf'd and infare'd.
There really should be a hyphen in there. Infra-dash-red. Without a hyphen, I see a word that rhymes with "impaired".
The trouble is, most verbs are made past-tense by the suffix "d" or "ed". Therefore, when I see the word infrared, with its absence of dash, I see the past tense of the verb infrare. Of course I know there is no such word as infrare, but this merely adds to my momentary confusion as I try to discern how light becomes, in fact, frare'd or in-frare'd.
I learned I'm not the only person whose mind goes there when my good buddy Grammar Patrol read a newspaper article about underfed horses. He was trying to figure out how exactly one derfs or underfs a horse. Grammar Patrol's grandson quipped that in Washington State, all horses must be properly derfed. Now tell me, should there not be a dash? Under-dash-fed.
You're familiar with my image. Tough and cool. It would not look tough and cool to publicly mispronounce infrared. This is also why it would be completely detrimental for me to meet Jeremy Renner in for real life. I'd totally lose my tough and cool. I'd just look underf'd and infare'd.
Magic Beans
I always wondered how those Dr. Phil Show soccer moms turned addicts. Then I got a prescription for hydrocodone. That's the generic name for Vicodin, though I believe it's the fruit of Jack's beanstalk.
I only had two wisdom teeth. (So...I'm half as smart as everyone else?) One was on the top left, and was abscessed and infected and excruciating and inflammatory. The other was on the bottom right, and was silent and hidden and complacent and hibernating.
When I visited the dentist to beg for removal of my top left, he said that when one's wisdom teeth are mellow like my bottom right, they pull them if you're under age thirty and leave them if you're over age thirty. I was right at age thirty. This meant I got to choose whether, when I had the top left pulled, to have the bottom right pulled at the same time, or leave it and hope it would behave for the rest of its life. Or at least mine. After the misery my top left had wreaked in my head, I opted to lose the bottom right lest it later commit acts of terrorism within my skull as well.
I was also given the option of being awake or asleep for the surgery. Being tough and cool, I opted out of being put under. (What a fool.)
When the surgery was over, and I was done arguing with the receptionist through my cotton wads because she demanded the entire brizillion dollars immediately but I didn't have it, and mopped up Hunneypunkin off the parking lot after he'd melted down because I'd just written a check for half a brizillion dollars to the oral surgeon but we didn't have it, I got my magic bean prescription filled.
Angels sang.
I turned into June Cleaver and Mr. Clean all rolled into one. Pain did not exist, anywhere. Not in my face, my head, my back, my neck, the butt, or even my sore foot. My children smiled and their teeth sparkled like Crest toothpaste commercials. No one bickered. Nighttime insomnia vanished, and daytime fatigue did too. The house was clean. Dinner was served. Everyone on earth looked like Jeremy Renner. (And I didn't even know who he was, at the time. The whole thing makes so much more sense to me, since Bourne.)
I told Hunneypunkin I didn't need the one refill I was allowed but I was considering getting it just in case. Hunneypunkin said I was high. "I am not," I said, "I just finally feel like a regular healthy normal person should feel." Hunneypunkin patted my shoulder and said, "That's because you're stoned."
The Precious had his wisdom teeth removed last week. I dutifully went to the pharmacy to get him his own magic beans. Now, in my kitchen, stands a little green bottle that holds the answer to all my problems. But alas, they are there to solve The Precious' problems, and I must abstain.
I only had two wisdom teeth. (So...I'm half as smart as everyone else?) One was on the top left, and was abscessed and infected and excruciating and inflammatory. The other was on the bottom right, and was silent and hidden and complacent and hibernating.
When I visited the dentist to beg for removal of my top left, he said that when one's wisdom teeth are mellow like my bottom right, they pull them if you're under age thirty and leave them if you're over age thirty. I was right at age thirty. This meant I got to choose whether, when I had the top left pulled, to have the bottom right pulled at the same time, or leave it and hope it would behave for the rest of its life. Or at least mine. After the misery my top left had wreaked in my head, I opted to lose the bottom right lest it later commit acts of terrorism within my skull as well.
I was also given the option of being awake or asleep for the surgery. Being tough and cool, I opted out of being put under. (What a fool.)
When the surgery was over, and I was done arguing with the receptionist through my cotton wads because she demanded the entire brizillion dollars immediately but I didn't have it, and mopped up Hunneypunkin off the parking lot after he'd melted down because I'd just written a check for half a brizillion dollars to the oral surgeon but we didn't have it, I got my magic bean prescription filled.
Angels sang.
I turned into June Cleaver and Mr. Clean all rolled into one. Pain did not exist, anywhere. Not in my face, my head, my back, my neck, the butt, or even my sore foot. My children smiled and their teeth sparkled like Crest toothpaste commercials. No one bickered. Nighttime insomnia vanished, and daytime fatigue did too. The house was clean. Dinner was served. Everyone on earth looked like Jeremy Renner. (And I didn't even know who he was, at the time. The whole thing makes so much more sense to me, since Bourne.)
I told Hunneypunkin I didn't need the one refill I was allowed but I was considering getting it just in case. Hunneypunkin said I was high. "I am not," I said, "I just finally feel like a regular healthy normal person should feel." Hunneypunkin patted my shoulder and said, "That's because you're stoned."
The Precious had his wisdom teeth removed last week. I dutifully went to the pharmacy to get him his own magic beans. Now, in my kitchen, stands a little green bottle that holds the answer to all my problems. But alas, they are there to solve The Precious' problems, and I must abstain.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Only Gonna Paint
All I needed was a gallon of paint and maybe a roller cover, so this little bathroom improvement would be well under fifty bucks. (You're laughing at me right now, aren't you?)
I couldn't handle knowing that there was a "blank" spot behind the toilet, so Hunneypunkin took it out in order for me to paint behind it. Naturally, it broke.
I had this tall skinny shelf that would fit nicely between the cabinet and the toilet, if the cabinet were half as wide, so, why not take out the cabinet, cut it in half, paint its ugly self to match the walls, put it back in, and stuff that tall skinny shelf beside it? There was a filthy, ratty chunk of carpet underneath the cabinet, and if we had moved that chunk of carpet BEFORE we cut the cabinet in half, we'd have discovered that the linoleum had been installed around the cabinet. Oops. Shopping for floor tile... This wouldn't happen to me if I were awesome like Jeremy Renner.
Hunneypunkin decided that since the budget was already blown, and we'd just replaced that lovely gold-colored toilet (did he break it accidentally on purpose?), we may as well replace that lovely gold-colored sink as well. Close your eyes, bite your lip, swipe the card. We'll just wait another month to buy groceries.
A few short years later, the new water-saver toilet doesn't save much water when it requires three flushes per use. The new sink is sporting a little gouge from a slip of Hunneypunkin's tools. The walls are still much prettier than they had been to start with, but I'm not sure a paint job was worth that many Benjamins.
I couldn't handle knowing that there was a "blank" spot behind the toilet, so Hunneypunkin took it out in order for me to paint behind it. Naturally, it broke.
I had this tall skinny shelf that would fit nicely between the cabinet and the toilet, if the cabinet were half as wide, so, why not take out the cabinet, cut it in half, paint its ugly self to match the walls, put it back in, and stuff that tall skinny shelf beside it? There was a filthy, ratty chunk of carpet underneath the cabinet, and if we had moved that chunk of carpet BEFORE we cut the cabinet in half, we'd have discovered that the linoleum had been installed around the cabinet. Oops. Shopping for floor tile... This wouldn't happen to me if I were awesome like Jeremy Renner.
Hunneypunkin decided that since the budget was already blown, and we'd just replaced that lovely gold-colored toilet (did he break it accidentally on purpose?), we may as well replace that lovely gold-colored sink as well. Close your eyes, bite your lip, swipe the card. We'll just wait another month to buy groceries.
A few short years later, the new water-saver toilet doesn't save much water when it requires three flushes per use. The new sink is sporting a little gouge from a slip of Hunneypunkin's tools. The walls are still much prettier than they had been to start with, but I'm not sure a paint job was worth that many Benjamins.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Pixie and Peaches
Pixie was two years old when Peaches came to be her bestest friend. Pixie was almost as big as Peaches at the time.
Peaches, being a large cat, was nervous about being lifted off the ground so he'd sink his kitty talons firmly into anyone who tried to pick him up, purring for the attention but terrified he'd be dropped. Everybody loved Peaches but nobody wanted to hold him. I personally refused to pick up Peaches because I have a serious aversion to being perforated. Pixie, however, could slide her miniature arm under Peaches' belly and hoist him off the grass, and he'd just hang there. I thought Peaches let Pixie pick him up because he'd only be a half inch off the ground, but then I watched her teensy little self precariously scale the ladder to the tree house using only one arm while Peaches dangled from the other. I was pretty impressed with Pixie's strength and agility, once I got done throwing up from panic.
If you've ever had a pixie or other mythological creature of your own, you know there's no sense in attempting to put the kibosh on their powers, so I learned to just not look when Pixie climbed to the top of everything we owned with Peaches in her little mitt.
One day Pixie rushed into the house sobbing till she could barely breathe. "What's wrong?!" I was afraid her hair was on fire or something.
Pixie gasped out, "Peaches doesn't love me anymore!"
I wasn't really able to pull together any kind of intelligent response to that.
"Daddy said!" Pixie sobbed.
What?! I grabbed a handful of seamstress pins with every intention of stabbing them repeatedly into Hunneypunkin's lips to make him pay for spitting such a stupid and heartless statement into Pixie's ear, but just before I marched into the man cave I paused to consider that Hunneypunkin isn't really a stupid and heartless kind of a guy. He's a pleasant, decent, hardworking sort. A regular Jeremy Renner. I put away the pins, remembered to breathe, and asked Pixie, "Why did Daddy say that?"
Pixie puffed and snuffled and said, "Daddy said that if I keep taking Peaches up to the tree house and then throwing him off, Peaches won't love me anymore."
Oh, Lord. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention. Is there a support group for parents of pixies?
Peaches, being a large cat, was nervous about being lifted off the ground so he'd sink his kitty talons firmly into anyone who tried to pick him up, purring for the attention but terrified he'd be dropped. Everybody loved Peaches but nobody wanted to hold him. I personally refused to pick up Peaches because I have a serious aversion to being perforated. Pixie, however, could slide her miniature arm under Peaches' belly and hoist him off the grass, and he'd just hang there. I thought Peaches let Pixie pick him up because he'd only be a half inch off the ground, but then I watched her teensy little self precariously scale the ladder to the tree house using only one arm while Peaches dangled from the other. I was pretty impressed with Pixie's strength and agility, once I got done throwing up from panic.
If you've ever had a pixie or other mythological creature of your own, you know there's no sense in attempting to put the kibosh on their powers, so I learned to just not look when Pixie climbed to the top of everything we owned with Peaches in her little mitt.
One day Pixie rushed into the house sobbing till she could barely breathe. "What's wrong?!" I was afraid her hair was on fire or something.
Pixie gasped out, "Peaches doesn't love me anymore!"
I wasn't really able to pull together any kind of intelligent response to that.
"Daddy said!" Pixie sobbed.
What?! I grabbed a handful of seamstress pins with every intention of stabbing them repeatedly into Hunneypunkin's lips to make him pay for spitting such a stupid and heartless statement into Pixie's ear, but just before I marched into the man cave I paused to consider that Hunneypunkin isn't really a stupid and heartless kind of a guy. He's a pleasant, decent, hardworking sort. A regular Jeremy Renner. I put away the pins, remembered to breathe, and asked Pixie, "Why did Daddy say that?"
Pixie puffed and snuffled and said, "Daddy said that if I keep taking Peaches up to the tree house and then throwing him off, Peaches won't love me anymore."
Oh, Lord. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention. Is there a support group for parents of pixies?
Friday, January 18, 2013
Gray Matter
Dingy mist lurks about the hood today and it puts a serious droop in my brain wave. I can feel my mind flat-lining. Maybe that makes sense, because that lame end-of-the-world apocalypse is four weeks behind us and yet I remain so I might actually be a zombie. But who cares? Jeremy Renner is still among us, so he must be a zombie too. I never knew a zombie could be such a studmuffin.
Are you singing that Cranberries song now...in your head?
I need to work on taxes, correct math papers, file my receipts, rear the offspring, bag up donatables, be the wife, pretend some dinner, contribute to society, clean the fridge (stupid leprechaun ought to be doing that, he has been living there after all and he's likely the slob who spilt the salsa), box up Christmas, remember my vitamins, save the planet, scrub the toilets, pay a bill, mop the floors, reduce my carbon, eat all organic, and do something with those planters that are vacant now because dehydrated houseplants do not come back if you just add water. Thus it is imperative that I devise a plan to stop the gray matter hanging in the air from affecting the gray matter in my head so I can focus.
If I possessed enough mental power right now to be able to experience emotion, I'd be feeling happy with myself over the fact that I didn't waste brain cells making New Year's resolutions this year, because today I wouldn't have the piece of mind to keep any. Maybe that's why I have the peace of mind to park here and blog while my workload has babies all around me.
Are you singing that Cranberries song now...in your head?
I need to work on taxes, correct math papers, file my receipts, rear the offspring, bag up donatables, be the wife, pretend some dinner, contribute to society, clean the fridge (stupid leprechaun ought to be doing that, he has been living there after all and he's likely the slob who spilt the salsa), box up Christmas, remember my vitamins, save the planet, scrub the toilets, pay a bill, mop the floors, reduce my carbon, eat all organic, and do something with those planters that are vacant now because dehydrated houseplants do not come back if you just add water. Thus it is imperative that I devise a plan to stop the gray matter hanging in the air from affecting the gray matter in my head so I can focus.
If I possessed enough mental power right now to be able to experience emotion, I'd be feeling happy with myself over the fact that I didn't waste brain cells making New Year's resolutions this year, because today I wouldn't have the piece of mind to keep any. Maybe that's why I have the peace of mind to park here and blog while my workload has babies all around me.
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