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Monday, December 31, 2007

Veev's New Year's Resolution

We have serious holiday traditions at our house. Like, don't mess with these traditions. Because they're beautiful. And poignant. And deeply meaningful.

Take, for example, our New Year's Eve tradition. Apparently, every year we buy a couple of Hot N' Ready $5.00 pizzas from Little Caesars. (Did I mention that our traditions are CLASSY, too?) Also, whichever child is in the toddler stage must spill their drink of root beer. It's tradition, after all. And Rhett must get annoyed, and growl, and said toddler must get their feelings hurt and cry in Mommy's arms for a good fifteen minutes. Then Rhett must apologize, and said toddler must then insist on having MORE soda pop. It's just tradition.

While we sit around chewing down our cheap pizza and root beer, I always try to pretend that there's some kind of Deep Meaning to New Year's Eve.

Here's this year's attempt:

Mom: So, lots of fun things have happened this last year. Let's see if we can list some of them.

If you listen carefully, between the loud chewing from the open mouths of both my four-year old and two-year old, you will literally hear our neighbor dogs HOWLING out of boredom.

Mom: Like we had a new baby this year!

Veevs: That didn't happen this year!

Mom: Yes, it did. Wristy's only nine-months old. Also, we had our grandparents come and visit us and Aunt Linz and Uncle Jordy and Aunt Bucky and Uncle John and the great-aunties, too. Wasn't this a fun year?

Veevs: That didn't happen this year! That happened a long time ago!

Mom: Honey, a year is a long time. A lot of things can happen in a year. So, now that we're starting a new year, what are some of the things you hope will happen? What are your goals?

More dogs HOWLING. More open-mouthed chewing.

Mom: Dad? What are some of your goals?

Dad swallows.

Dad: Um. I want to get a new job.

Mom: Great. Dad has a goal to get a new job! Great goal, honey. Spe, what would you like to do?

Spe flashes Mom with a half-eaten mouthful of pizza.

Mom: Would you like to learn all your letters?

Spe: Yeah!

Mom: Great goal, Spe. We'll make sure you learn all your letters this year.

I'm figuring we can knock that baby out in January, as Spe only has seven more letters to go in the alphabet. Realistic expectations. I'm all about realistic expectations.

Mom: Veevs, what are your goals for this year?

Veevs: (in her nonchalant, "I'm so grown-up" voice) You know, Mom, I really just like to lay on the couch and watch TV all day. That's all I want to do this whole year.

That girl is all about realistic expectations.

Miraculous Update

The relic has left the building.

Rhett found my Ziploc bag (which, as you will recall, contained the holy toenail). He threw it away. He said it was disgusting.

He is such a doubting Thomas.

Friday, December 28, 2007

My Own Christmas Miracle

About ten years ago, I served a Mormon mission in England. When I came home, I remember feeling distinctly more British than American, and England has always held a special place in my heart.

One of my favorite English hymns (which incidentally is a William Blake poem set to music, for those of you who care) discusses the possibility that Jesus walked in Britain during his lifetime.

"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the Holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?"

Are you wondering when this would have happened? Apparently, Egypt was only a stopping off point for baby Jesus on his way to England. I love this assertion. It's so British colonialism to assert that Jesus loved England more than other countries. It makes me want to gather up William Blake in my arms and hug him to my bosom and thank him for his presumption. It just makes me happy.

While England has a special place in my heart (and not just because Jesus walked there), it has also left its mark on my feet.Apparently, at some point, I had a bad pair of shoes. Mormon missionaries walk a lot. We also knock on a lot of doors, but that's beside the point. The shoes and the walking combined spelled trouble for my poor big toenails. As in, I'vehadthesamebigtoenailsforthelasttenyears. There, I said it.

Said toenails are certainly disgusting. About three times thicker than the average toenail, I can occasionally be found filing them down with an emery board. The color of curdled milk, I keep nail polish on them year round (which isn't hard, considering that they never grow). Slightly painful, I often sleep with them dangling off the bed.

Honestly, they are the exact same toenails that I left England with, ten years ago. They never grow. They don't fall off. They seem perfectly content to enjoy the status quo.

When I first got home I consulted with The Expert, my dad, who also happens to be a podiatrist.

"Dad," I queried, "What should I do with these toenails?" (I believe I was hoping that he would give me a pill that would cure me within ten days. Alas.)

"Well, these toenails are only attached to the nail bed at the base." He turned my toe this way and that as he peered at the loveliness that is my toenail. "Mmm. I'd take them off if I were you."

Having done transcriptions for my dad as a teenager (badly, I might add) I asked, "You mean a total matrixectomy?" (I believe I've misspelled it here just for old times sake. I've never been a perfectionist.) I was horrified.

"Yep." These things hold no horror for my father.

"Will they grow back?" I asked.

He turned the toe another way, and looked at it carelessly. "Nope. Probably not."

"Um, that's okay. I'll just keep these toenails for now." Is it vain that I would rather have had thick, discolored nasty toenails than no toenails at all?

That has been the status quo for the last ten years. But then two days after Christmas, a miracle!

I was helping my kids clean up their new board game in our living room, when I happened to glance at my right foot. Where was the thick, blood-red painted toenail that had been my constant companion for the last ten years? Gone! It had fallen off! And in its place, secretly growing beneath my discolored nasty toenail, a perfectly formed, thin, normal toenail, grown halfway up my nail bed. A Christmas Miracle!

A quick search by me and the kids revealed that the toenail had fallen off upstairs in our TV room. The best part of the miracle: absolute pain-free toenail removal. I promise that wasn't in The Expert's plan. Not even a little bit.

I tell you, it's enough to make a believer out of me about this whole Jesus Walking in England thing. My British toenail, growing a new perfect toenail, and then falling off at Christmas time? Coincidence? I think not. I'm starting to think that my toenail should be a holy relic.

If you want to see it and be blessed by the potency of its miraculousness, I'm currently storing it in a Ziploc bag. I just can't let it go. We have, after all, been together for over ten years.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

1 Teether and 2 Teasers

Little Wristy is teething his first two teeth. Yes, he's a late bloomer, as he's now nine months old. Yes, he has lots more teeth to go, so I really should brace myself. Yes, I'm sure he's less grumpy than a four month old teether. But, he still ain't no party.

Add to this grumpy little teether, two BIG teasers.

Here's what lunch sounded like today:

Wristy: Waaah! Waaah!

Veevs: Mom, Spe has his leg on my chair.

Mom: (without turning around) Spe, get your leg off Veevs chair.

Spe: Ko-kay.

Mom peels one clementine exactly, before this occurs:

Spe: Waaah! IVY! NO!

Mom: (now turning around) Veevs, get your leg off Spe's chair!

Veevs: (in her whiny voice that she seriously must practice in bed at night, because it's THAT whiny) Mom, he keeps putting his leg on my chair.

Mom: Why are you telling me this? You keep putting your leg on his chair, so I don't have a lot of sympathy right now, sis.

Veevs: Spe, please get your leg off my chair.

Spe: Ko-kay. (Spe is very compliant, but he keeps putting that leg back whenever he thinks she's not looking. He's a sneaky little tormenter, my Spe.)

Spe: NOOOOO! Waaaaah!

(You do remember that Wristy is crying throughout this whole deal, don't you? I, unfortunately, cannot forget.)

Mom: (starting to lose it) Veevylyn! (I use this nickname when I'm REALLY serious!) Get your leg off your brother's chair! Or I'm going to come stick my legs on BOTH of your chairs!

Spe: Noooo! Waaah!

Veevs: Nooo! Waaah!

Wristy: Waaah!

Yes, I did just put all three of my children into hysterics. Because while Wristy may be teething, and Veevs and Spe may love to torment each other, Mom is the equivalent of a verbal taser.

After this incident, we all went and did a little quiet time in our rooms. Mom included.

Hope your post-holiday sugar letdown is more smooth than mine!

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Even More Rhett

I believe many of you will remember my husband's propensity to strip down whenever the opportunity arises. Many of you made comments that he would be embarrassed when he read that particular post. Trust me, he was not embarrassed. Ecstatic, maybe. Proud of himself? Definitely. So please don't think I'm exposing his deepest, darkest secrets. If anything I'm boosting his ego.

Along with my fear of crocodiles, I also have a mild fear of the dark. Especially things that rustle in the dark. Or you know, just the dark. Rhett thinks it's HILARIOUS, so he often will try to freak me out by turning off the lights and laughing like a homicidal maniac, or by rustling around in bed when I turn out the lights at night.

So a few months into our marriage, I wasn't really surprised when he started rustling around when I turned off the lights. I gathered my courage (because it really does freak me out) and half-ran/half-leaped into bed (for some reason all my fears center on what lurks underneath my bed). Once there, I nestled in, and leaned over to kiss Rhett goodnight.

I reached out for his cheek to orient myself so I didn't end up, oh, kissing his nose or something, when I realized this was a different kind of cheek from what I was expecting. It was much smoother, a little bit like a baby's bum . . .

All that rustling? It had been him, dropping his drawers, and realigning his bum on the pillow, in the hopes that I would kiss his rear end before I went to bed. Totally disgusted by what almost was, I smacked his bum. He laughed hysterically.

Just remember, he's proud of this kind of behavior before you censure me for posting his deepest, darkest secrets. For him, there's no such thing as a deepest, darkest secret.

Anyone else wondering why I love him so much?

I think it's because he makes me laugh every day. . .

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Junk

Veevs is a packrat. A junk fiend. A collector of collectibles and non-collectibles alike. A garbage gatherer. A yard sale's best friend.

She comes by it honestly, really. Her dad has sentimental attachments to things I wouldn't even dream of keeping (a Canadian hockey puck, for instance, although he has never played hockey. Free T-shirts are another passion, as are coffee mugs, despite the fact that he doesn't drink coffee.) And Rhett's dad is another breed altogether: a collector of all things collectible. He's got several rooms full of his collections: license plates, old lunch boxes, matchbooks, silver, stamps, hunting and fishing gear, vintage toys, and beer bottles. He's the kind of guy who keeps his eyes peeled when he's driving on the highway for towels that have blown off of someone's boat, so that he can use them for garage towels.

So I can't get too annoyed with Veevs when she starts getting packrattish (I made up that word, so don't bother looking it up). I understand it's just genetic. She can't help it. Sometimes though, I can't help it. I try to reform her.

This is us cleaning her room a few days ago:

Me: Hey, Veevs, why don't we throw away this foam fish that you got for Halloween two years ago?

Veevs: No, mom! That's my favorite! I need it to go swimming with! (She has never gone swimming with it. She never will. But just in case . . .)

Me: Okaaaaaay. Well, what about this collection of rocks? Can we throw away some of these?

Veevs: No! I want to paint all of those. (Again, she has never painted any of them. Nor will she. However, just in case . . .)

Me: Riiiiiiight.

Eventually, I just start surreptitiously slipping her special treasures into the garbage can in her room. I have to cover the contents of the trash can with a paper so that she can't see that I've thrown her stuff away, because if she discovers that her treasures are being hauled off, she will flip out.

Me: Okay, I'm just going to run put the baby to bed. You finish making your bed, and I'll come check your work.

Veevs: Okay.

I come back a few minutes later. I peek into her room. She is taking all of the junk that I threw away out of the trash, one by one. With each item, she gives an indignant "hmph!" before she puts it back into her "treasure box".

I start to laugh. Because, really, it's just genetic.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Christmas Joy!

I've totally figured out the secret to having a peaceful, restful, non-stressful holiday. Here's my list of holiday tips:

1) Don't accept any invitations to go anywhere. I don't have any holiday plans whatsoever, and I'm SO glad. I mean, except I have a thing tonight. And of course, another one this weekend. And then one on Christmas Day. And one the day after. But aside from that, I didn't make any plans at all.

2) Never volunteer to do anything. I totally never do--except of course, I did bake a ham for the church Christmas party, and I did watch a few kids while their parents went Christmas shopping, and I am bringing food to each of the aforementioned gatherings. But other than that, no volunteerism. Period.

3) Wrap all your presents as you buy them. I totally did this, and I'm totally done with wrapping. Well, except for the pajamas that my kids have to open on Christmas Eve, and Santa's gifts to me (which include a glam new set of pots and pans), and my gifts to Rhett. Totally done, right?

4) Don't overdo traditions. You know, you don't have to do everything. And it doesn't have to be extravagant. We have no holiday traditions at all. Well, except we do a Twelve Days of Christmas service tradition. And we act out the nativity. And we make goodies to take to our neighbors and we make Christmas sugar cookies for us to get fat on. Aside from that, NO TRADITIONS!

5) Never, ever, EVER tell your kids that you'll do anything extra like make reindeer candy canes for every kid in their class. This is how traditions get started, and do you really want that pressure?

Actually, while writing these holiday tips I've realized that I still have a ton of wrapping to do and I have a gourmet salad to whip up for my thing tonight. I also haven't made our Christmas cookies yet. So, why am I wasting time? I have to move it if I'm going to get everything done before Christmas.

Hope your holidays are happy, joyous and PEACEFUL!

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

The Financial Fascists Strike Again

I believe I've mentioned that my husband belongs to a rather elite group called The Financial Fascists. So elite, in fact, that it has only two members: my husband, and my brother-in-law, Jordy. They exist for two reasons: to watch their bank balances grow and to keep their wives from spending money. This week Rhett's membership in this elite group reared its ugly head again.

Every year I send a kitschy, dollar-store purchased Christmas package to my brother Josh, who is 27-years old (I only mention his age so you don't think my gifts are appropriate and cute for a four-year old). This year, we visited Big Lots to find the treasures that I knew he would appreciate most. For example, I got him a sweet Christmas CD titled "Christmas with Soul". I know he'll love it. Also, I got him a Christian coloring book complete with stickers.

Unfortunately, while we were there, Rhett discovered that there's more to Big Lots than just Christian coloring books. BABY FOOD is sold there for 25 cents a jar. He loaded up our cart. I looked the other way and pretended that I wasn't with him. Because there aren't any normal flavors, like squash, sweet potatoes, or green beans. But there were lots of exotic flavors that Wristy can't wait to try.

Like papaya dessert, for example. Or my favorite, chicken, carrots and pink beans. I don't even know what pink beans are. If you see me at Big Lots, just know that I'm under orders from the Financial Fascist.

One of these days, there's going to be a revolution.

Monday, December 17, 2007

My Famous Friend


Last night I had the great pleasure of watching one of my former students, Todd Herzog, win "Survivor: China". Really. Which of course means he is now like $950,000 richer than his former teacher, but I haven't even thought about that. Hardly.

But the best part is that he was a student that I really liked. You know, some students (including some of the ones who went to prison, Boys' Ranch, and other correctional institutions) just wouldn't have gotten my support. But Todd was a genuinely nice kid (I think he probably still is, because who else would add his old English teacher as a friend on Facebook but a genuinely nice person?). I mean, I know on the show he's kind of a schemer. But in real life he is just a great person!

The other funny thing is that when I think about Todd, I think "Survivor"--because Todd and his friends were serious addicts. They had betting pools, "Survivor" parties, and LONG DRAWN OUT conversations about the people and strategies. Every week Todd would ask, "Hey, did you watch Survivor?"

I never did. But this season I watched every episode. And when Todd won, my daughter said, "Oh, mom, your 'Hot Toddy' won!" I should point out that this is a nickname I gave him this year, not one from my teaching days. Because I'm not Mary Kay LeTourneau or anything. I have boundaries. Also, I hope you realize it's like a pun, on the drink, not like a commentary on his hotness, because hello, I'm totally happily married, and also, hello, he's like ten years younger than me, and like, hello, that's just WEIRD!

So, anyway, with all that said--Congratulations, Todd! You stayed out of prison, AND you made a million dollars. That's pretty great for a graduate from a high school that was infested by bats.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

If I Could Turn Back Time . . .

When I was visiting with my ophthalmologist the other day, we discussed my fairly frequent migraine headaches.

"You know," he said sincerely, "you really probably shouldn't have had your kids so close together. It really takes a toll on your essential oils."

Well, if I had a dollar for every doctor who has told me that, I would be rich!

Well, three dollars richer, anyway. But still.

I keep wondering, what good does this advice do me now? I can't magically get rid of one of my kids. Not that I would want to, of course. So why say it?

It's a little bit like the students who would come to me at the end of the term with a 27% in the class.

"So, um . . . I was wondering if there was, like, anything that I could, like, DO to bring my grade up." This was usually accompanied by a lot of looking off into space or fiddling with the paper clips that I kept in my scented candle, since I wasn't allowed to actually burn the candle. Apparently a guano filled building can go up in flames instantly. On the plus side, I had the nicest smelling paper clips in the school.

I usually tried to be kind but firm. I explained that it was too late to change the past, but they could always work on next term.

One of my more sarcastic teacher friends would handle these special students this way:

"Oh, yes!" he would say.

The student would brighten instantly, envisioning making up a whole quarter of missed work by making a poster on Beethoven's life.

"Oh, good," the student would say, "Because my mom is going to kill me. What do I have to do?"

"Well," my friend would say cheerfully, "you need to go home." (The student would nod feverishly in agreement.)

"And build a time machine." (The student would look slightly confused.)

"And then set your time machine to the first day of this quarter and then you need to do all of your work when it was assigned." My friend would bestow the student with a beatific smile, as if he were giving really good advice.

"YOU SUCK!" was I think the most popular student response. High schoolers have really great comebacks. Their repartee skills are highly developed and not to be trifled with.

Alas, I'm a little bit past the stage where "YOU SUCK!" is an appropriate response for my doctors. But I will wait for a while to have my next baby. Not because of their advice, though. Just because I don't think my sanity will allow me to have another one any time soon. Those doctors aren't the boss of ME!

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Serial Killers

I dreamed last night that some of Veev's friends were serial killers. And we were the next family on their list.

Veevs and her friends are four years old. You might be thinking I laughed when I woke up from this dream. Nope. I shivered in bed and pawed at Rhett (who was so doped up on Tylenol PM that he didn't notice) and whimpered like a baby. Frankly, I was terrified for a good hour.

I think maybe I should stop watching CSI. I have an overactive imagination and an inability to distinguish fiction from reality, and thus, these things just prey on me.

Although, who knows? Maybe it's a warning? Maybe a premonition? Maybe Veevs' four-year-old friends really ARE serial killers. Maybe we should buy an alarm system.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Rhett's Refrigerator Drama

I had a friend and her kids over for lunch today. I TRY to make something a little bit more substantive for the adults (although last time she came we had macaroni and cheese from a box) so last night I killed myself in the kitchen preparing a crockpot recipe. I know, I know, there's no such thing as a difficult crockpot recipe, but you have to factor in my almost complete ineptitude in the kitchen.I decided that I would just store it in the fridge and plug it in this morning when I got up to nurse baby Wristy (at 5:00 a.m., my self-pity insists that I add). So I put the crockpot container in the fridge and came upstairs to blog and laze about.

Rhett came home from one of his finals. "Hey!" I yelled down. "How did your final go?" Because while I'm totally interested, I'm not interested enough to go down the stairs.

"Fine!" He yelled back, also interested in this conversation but too lazy to have it face to face. We really should have used our cell phones.

A few minutes later, he yells up, "Heids, is this crockpot cooked?"

"No!" I yell back.

"So, should I make myself throw up?" There's a little bit of panic in his voice. I'm still wondering how the raw onions, garlic, and bell peppers didn't clue him in before he ate a few bites.

I wish I would have said yes, instead of telling him that the chicken had been pan fried before being put in the crock pot.

Because I'm totally one of those wives.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The Grinch

My oldest kids are both loving the title song from The Grinch.

Veevs (4) starts to do a slow jazz run, dragging her feet against the carpet, whenever the song comes on. "Mom," she says knowingly, "that's what the music is telling my body to do."

Spe requests it by name. "Again! Again! I want to hear 'The Bitch' again!"

I kid you not. That's what it sounds like.

Rhett and I try to stifle giggles. "What do you want?" we ask. In good faith, Spe repeats himself. We snicker some more.

We're totally those kind of parents.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Call A Spade A Spade

A while back I was listening to National Public Radio, which I love but rarely get to listen to as my husband has convinced my children that "We Will Rock You" is much more fascinating car fare. Whatever.

However, NPR was interviewing the founder of the Internet cheating site essayrelief.com, where you can download essays and try to pass them off as your own. Here's a general summary of the interview:

NPR: So you don't see any problem with helping kids cheat?

Idiot: We never meant for kids to cheat with our papers. We just want them to be able to have a resource for examples of papers that would give them ideas for their own papers.

NPR: Are you kidding?

Idiot: No, really. That has always been our intention.

NPR: So, you don't want high school and college students to use your papers as their own?

Idiot: (horrified tone) NO! Absolutely not. That's dishonest!

NPR: (in a skeptical tone) So, although your website says, "At Essay Relief, we strive to provide professional and original quality in essay writing at low and affordable prices, that are guaranteed to get you an 'A'--but you actually had no intention of people ever turning it in?

Idiot: Correct.

Am I the only one who wishes this guy would just come clean? I can't stand companies that pretend that they don't exist solely to make money off of other people's vices. At the very least, be honest about being dishonest. If I had been in that interview, here's how I would have handled the situation.

NPR: So you don't see any problem with helping kids cheat?

Me: Oh, I see a problem with it. But it's just so dang lucrative. I mean, these kids will pay lots of money for a paper.

NPR: So, you're just in this for the money?

Me: Absolutely. I'm just living the American Dream: making money off the labor of my employees. Really, these kids are living the American Dream too: paying lots of money for someone else to do your labor for you.

NPR: Aren't you worried that some day you'll go in for a surgery and your surgeon will have cheated his way through school thanks to people like you?

Me: Not really. Because I just had an MRI, and everything looked great. I've got another ten or fifteen years before I really have to worry.

NPR: What if the radiologist cheated through school and gave you a false reading?

Me: Hmm. That's interesting. Thought-provoking, even. But don't worry. If that's the case, I'll just enjoy the time that I have left. I'll spend all my ill-gotten gains and die happy. And my funeral will make Anna Nicole's look like a puppet show.

Don't you think I might have a brilliant future in public relations?

Friday, December 7, 2007

My Kids' Santa Lists


My two oldest kids (oldest here is a very loose term, as they are only four and two) and I sat down to do their lists for Santa. Because I'm a former English major, I'm totally okay with stream of consciousness. These are their lists, exactly how they gave them to me:

Veevs (4)

Dear Santa,

I would like Littlest Pet Shops for Christmas this year.

I would like a real racecar.

I would like a red rocket.

I would like a flying pretend dragon that has a button on it and it puffs up.

I would like a pink timer that has music on it and it can zoom up my room to the planets.

I want a new pillow sheet.

I would like a dinosaur that I could ride.

I would like, uh, I was thinking of, uh, a pretend rocket, too, and a real rocket.

I would like a real dog pet.

Love, Veevs


I don't make my kids waste time on small talk or gratitude for last year's haul, as you can tell.

Here's Spe's list. He's two-years old.

Dear Santa,

I would like some Cars stuff this year, like maybe a Lightning McQueen.

I just love Lightning McQueen.

I want to watch Cars.

I want to watch “Round.”

I want to watch Cars!

I want a dinosaur.

I would like a pet.

I would like a pet, my pet.


I believe Spe got a little sidetracked somewhere in the middle by the fact that we were sitting at my computer where he can occasionally watch movies and YouTube music videos (with his dad, of course).

We will not be getting a pet.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

The Results Show

Well, I went to the doctor's office today. And I got my results from my tests. Everything is fine, just fine. Well, the MRI did show that I have a puffy eyelid (which I'm really grateful that they found, because it's not obvious or anything). But aside from that, I'm clean. Tumor-free, optic neuritis free, just plain FREE!

Is it wrong that there's a small part of me that's a little bit disappointed that there wasn't any DRAMA? I guess the middle child in me still is willing to do just about anything for a little bit of attention.

I didn't even get to wear an eye patch. Drat.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Sanctuary!

Well, who'd have thought? I mean, I guess sometimes your eye swelling up is actually an abnormal, bad thing.

So, I have to go get an MRI and some blood work done. Which I'm pretty sure will be my favorite things to do in this lifetime, because I'm like that. Plus, I love medical drama.

And maybe I'll get to wear an eyepatch after all. I did get to wear the cheap sunglasses that the optometrist hands out like candy. It's a step in the right direction!

Sunday, December 2, 2007

I don't want to scare anyone. But I think I'm metamorphosing. Into Quasimodo.


I woke up a couple of days ago, and one of my eyes was a little puffy, a little more closed than the other one. No big deal, although the lady who does my hair asked me if I had pinkeye (rather nervously, I think) and another lady kept staring at me as though I were a pirate who would soon abscond with her children. But still, it wasn't that bad.

However, yesterday morning I seriously became Quasimodo. One eye is practically sealed shut now. It's not itchy, it's not red, it's just puffy. Really, really puffy. I didn't go to church today, not because it hurts or itches, but because sheer vanity won't allow me to expose myself to that much ridicule (at least not after the hairdresser incident).

I should probably just pull out Veev's pirate patch from Halloween. Or stay indoors for an indefinite amount of time until it goes away. If it ever goes away. What if I'm Quasimodo forever? And what if Rhett decides to exploit my good nature and becomes obsessed with a gypsy girl and then I have to save the gypsy from Rhett's licentious advances by swinging through the city on ropes with the gypsy girl, who of course will be buxom and beautiful, strapped to my back? See why I'm worried?