My comma key just fell off. FELL OFF! I realize that I type probably 72% more commas than are strictly necessary, and leave at least 30% more than are needed after editing. However. It's a bit harsh to have the key actually try to flee for its life after a little over-exertion. Maybe it's a pre-set by Dell - after so many commas, the key is set to just pop off.
I wonder how many "a"s I have left.
An Addendum - I must say many thanks to those who said a few words at the reported demise of my comma key. However, the following evening, courtesy of a long 30 minutes with tweezers and a magnifying glass, it lives again! Take that, Dell!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
And even milk!
The Little Man is becoming quite the little card. He's getting more articulate, and (likely thanks to the massive amount of TV he imbibes) tries out a lot of things and phrases daily that I have no recollection teaching him. Thank God we haven't started him on the Cheech & Chong or hard-core Sci-Fi yet, so mostly when he tries out new material it cracks my ass up.
A sampling:
A sampling:
- He practiced pratfalls in the living room the other day. Falling on the edge of the couch cushion to the floor, over and over and over. For no apparent reason, and not necessarily even looking up to see audience response.
- He randomly picked this line up out of a train documentary "[Trains haul] gas, oil and even milk!" He spent the rest of the day coming up to me and saying, "Even milk, Mommy! Even milk!"
- I was changing him out of his pajamas and the shirt got stuck half-way over his head. He looked at me with his little face sticking out of the middle of his bunched up yellow shirt and said, "Mommy! A sunflower!"
- This morning right after rising, he started tugging at his full, saggy-wet diper. I asked him, "Are you wet? Do we need to change your pants?" "No, Mommy, I have gas." "You have gas?" I asked him, starting to giggle. "Yes, Mommy, gas, oil, and even milk!"
- We're in the car and I hear this little voice pipe up from the back seat in an adoring tone,"Fuck!" My mind instantly went into overdrive about where he learned this - was it me? Mr. Me? My parents? And, wherever he got it, he hasn't been using that term nearly long enough to be actually fond of it. I looked in the rear-view and finally saw him staring lovingly at his truck. You know, when you're two that "tr" sound can be awfully hard to pronounce.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
We've Got Gas
Mr. Me and I have been enjoying a baby-free week due to daycare being closed and oh-so-generous grandparents taking the Little Man for the week. The Week! It's been glorious.
We went out on our first night to ourselves to dinner and a movie - predictable date, but such a treat these days. We got home at 11:00 and my plans included falling into bed literally the minute I got home. But. When we got upstairs for pajamas/bed, we noticed this horrible smell coming from the air conditioning vents. It smelled like farts. Like our house was farting out the vents. It had started to smell the night previous, but I wrote it down to the cat pooping in an inappropriate place that I would locate later. It had gotten stronger overnight, though, to almost uncomfortable levels. I thought to myself that I REALLY needed to make an effort to find that pile of poo, but first thing tomorrow because Dear God I'm exhausted.
Mr. Me, however, had more energy and went down to the basement in search of the source. He came bounding up the stairs "Honey, we have a gas leak. Let's call the fire department!"
Now, I know what gas smells like and this smelled like a whole different type of gas, but I also know that if I didn't put this gas-smell thing to bed he would be bugging me half the night and I would get no sleep. And calling the fire department? Pshaw. So I trekked down to the little room in the basement where the heater & hot water heater live and I smelled something too. It smelled odd, kind of like gas, but if it was gas it wasn't a lot.
Mr. Me took this as confirmation that the house was completely full of gas and started throwing open the windows of my nice, cool house to the muggy 95 degree night air. And he called my dad - our local handyman - who said that if we had a gas leak we needed to get out of the house and call someone.
"Honey, we need to get out of the house NOW and call 911". Apparently talking with my father had shot him right into "our house is going to blow up any second" orbit. Sigh. Our house is full of running electronics - if it had a blowing-up amount of gas in it, it would have blown up already. And, you'd be smelling natural gas throughout the whole house, which I wasn't necessarily convinced we had any gas even in the utility room. I tried arguing, but to no avail. I at least talked him into calling the gas company instead of 911, but he nagged me to hurry and leave the entire time I was going to the bathroom and changing fom my pajamas.
Sitting on the stairs in front of the house was not good enough for my protector, so I ended up sitting on the curb in the dead of a swamp-hot night with pebbles digging into my ass getting madder by the minute. All the while my worry-wart husband paced back and forth, back and forth across the drive, insisting that he's made the right decision.
Finally, FINALLY, the gas guy arrives. And informs us that we have sewer gas coming up through the drain in the basement. And that it can be fixed with a few gallons of bleach water.
This will provide me with YEARS of material for snark-laden commentary. YEARS, I tell you.
We went out on our first night to ourselves to dinner and a movie - predictable date, but such a treat these days. We got home at 11:00 and my plans included falling into bed literally the minute I got home. But. When we got upstairs for pajamas/bed, we noticed this horrible smell coming from the air conditioning vents. It smelled like farts. Like our house was farting out the vents. It had started to smell the night previous, but I wrote it down to the cat pooping in an inappropriate place that I would locate later. It had gotten stronger overnight, though, to almost uncomfortable levels. I thought to myself that I REALLY needed to make an effort to find that pile of poo, but first thing tomorrow because Dear God I'm exhausted.
Mr. Me, however, had more energy and went down to the basement in search of the source. He came bounding up the stairs "Honey, we have a gas leak. Let's call the fire department!"
Now, I know what gas smells like and this smelled like a whole different type of gas, but I also know that if I didn't put this gas-smell thing to bed he would be bugging me half the night and I would get no sleep. And calling the fire department? Pshaw. So I trekked down to the little room in the basement where the heater & hot water heater live and I smelled something too. It smelled odd, kind of like gas, but if it was gas it wasn't a lot.
Mr. Me took this as confirmation that the house was completely full of gas and started throwing open the windows of my nice, cool house to the muggy 95 degree night air. And he called my dad - our local handyman - who said that if we had a gas leak we needed to get out of the house and call someone.
"Honey, we need to get out of the house NOW and call 911". Apparently talking with my father had shot him right into "our house is going to blow up any second" orbit. Sigh. Our house is full of running electronics - if it had a blowing-up amount of gas in it, it would have blown up already. And, you'd be smelling natural gas throughout the whole house, which I wasn't necessarily convinced we had any gas even in the utility room. I tried arguing, but to no avail. I at least talked him into calling the gas company instead of 911, but he nagged me to hurry and leave the entire time I was going to the bathroom and changing fom my pajamas.
Sitting on the stairs in front of the house was not good enough for my protector, so I ended up sitting on the curb in the dead of a swamp-hot night with pebbles digging into my ass getting madder by the minute. All the while my worry-wart husband paced back and forth, back and forth across the drive, insisting that he's made the right decision.
Finally, FINALLY, the gas guy arrives. And informs us that we have sewer gas coming up through the drain in the basement. And that it can be fixed with a few gallons of bleach water.
This will provide me with YEARS of material for snark-laden commentary. YEARS, I tell you.
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