If you’re old enough to remember the last time Halley’s comet was visible, you probably remember the “cow toy” or maybe even the “pig toy” that used to be on display in front of certain mall stores like Kirkland’s or KB Toys.
These animals would waddle a couple of steps, make their species-appropriate noise and wag their tail or wiggle their nose or some such cuteness.
When my daughter was a baby, we did the whole nursery thing: crib, rocking chair, changing table, toy chest, etc. After investing several hundred dollars in this set-up, I discovered I my inner hippie and we became “family bed” people, meaning the only time we got crib use was when I wanted to clean house during her nap time…like, say, twice a year or so.
On one such day, my sweet baby girl fell asleep and, feeling an inexplicable need to vacuum, I took her upstairs, put her in the crib with some “babies”, pulled the blanket up and the door closed, and left her to snooze peacefully. I would check on her from time to time, as she was such a good-natured baby she almost never cried. When she woke, she would just stare at her toes or make mouth bubbles or whatever else babies do. On this day, however, she woke SCREAMING. Not the “I’m hungry” cry, or the “I’m alone” whimper, not even the “I HAVE DIAPER RASH AND MY TUSHY BURNS!!!!” wail. This was a full-blown scream of terror.
I flew up the stairs (as all super-moms do), rushed into her room to find her flailing in one corner of her crib, her feet entangled in a blanket, as she frantically attempted to escape it. Poor kid. I picked her up, checked her out, and soothed her mini-freak-out. She was fine. Once she quieted down, I heard a softly recurring “mooooo” from under the blanket that had been twisted around her feet. I turned off the little cow she must have inadvertantly kicked on in her sleep, and we went off to play.
Some days later we were in the nursery reading books and playing with blocks, when I set the cow between us and flipped him on. He started to waddle and before he could “moo”, Kacey was in full-blown screaming freak-out mode.
Seems when she kicked on our little bovine friend, his electronic noises woke her, 
and not being able to escape from under the blanket that imprisoned them both, she experienced her first panic attack.
She never could play with the cow again.
Though, every now and again, for my own sadistic entertainment, I would flip it on just to see what happened. Yeah…Super-Mom has a dark side.
distracting you from the fact that you are paying $26.94 for a couple of burgers and a glass that contains more ice than tea.
It read, “Who would play you in the movie of your life?”
and before the name “Angelina Jolie” rolled off her tongue, her son spurted out,
After the drama of yesterday’s flat hair we wonder how much more Stephanie and the cowboy can take? HOW. MUCH. MORE? They have now entered their 50th hour without working indoor plumbing. FIFTY HOURS. That’s roughly 3,000 minutes suffering in the desert of their shared abode.
Will she be able to discern PVC from galvanized iron? Can she manage the right length and thickness?
the vent was to crawl into, and Stephanie may have to help him get back out. She tells him not to worry. She is certain if his middle is too round to fit, and he has to remain wedged there for several days in a great tightness, she will be certain to visit every day and feed him honey until Christopher Robin can help with the rescue effort.
She turns the meter on, and behold there is water, and it is good. (cue “Hallelujah Chorus”)
When we last left our victims, the cowboy-turned-plumber had been made aware of a possible skunk under the house just as a main waterline blew. He had given up the claustrophic chore of crawling beneath the concrete to conquer the catastrophe, postponing it until tomorrow. But the dreaded “TOMORROW” is now today. BUT soon there will be water and all will be well.
looking like a decaying extra from The Walking Dead. He hurts. All over. Neck pain. Back pain. Knee pain. “Bad day,” he comments, “aching all over. Swelling. Pain. Head hurts”
Yet another day without water. The laundry is piling up. The dishwasher is overloaded. The pitchers of water are running dangerous low. The toilet is being flushed with a 5-gallon bucket of pond water.
Removing the exterior vent cover nearest the central air unit, the cowboy-turned-amateur-plumber-because-heaven-forbid-we-pay-someone-to-do-a-job-today-that-he-can-do-himself-for-free-not-counting-supplies-over-a-period-of-several-days ‘army crawls’ into the damp darkness. Once he is securely wedged under the center of the house, he begins to bang and groan and saw. Stephanie chooses this critical juncture to share important information by yelling through the floor of the kitchen.
Stop the choir! The rejoicing was woefully premature, and the repair only served to stress the line further toward the front of the house, causing a full-on rupture of the pipe.
Emergency showers are taken. Legs are left unshaven (and this is NOT November! The cowboy is risking serious stubble burn if he has his sights set on snuggling.)
The synchronized stoppage of the strange hissing sound in sync with her son’s shower and the incoming text is an awfully big coincidence. (Of course, everyone knows, there are no big coincidences or small coincidences, only coincidences.) Still, she grabs her glowing purple cell, eager to discover who, WHO, has texted at this wee hour of 8:15 a.m.??? It’s the cowboy, who left for work just after discovering the hissing noise. Text: Wrench in garage. Leak under house. Turn water off at meter.
Now Stephanie runs her bath water while the washer fills, simultaneously her son fills 2 pitchers, brushes his teeth. Miraculously the laundry finishes spinning only moments after Stephanie’s legs are shaved…DONE! And in record time – only 38 minutes from text to wrench twist and the water is OFF!
Anyway, my quest for simplicity finally led me to this 16×20. I love it dearly, but it is woefully dated and needs to go (much like that herb-laden wallpaper border in the kitchen. But that requires a stepstool and a boxcutter and two hours of my time, and I’d rather whine about it than strip it. But I digress.)
So I typed, “To who?” but I couldn’t do it. Before I hit SEND, my Zero Tolerance Approach to Bad Grammar required me to correct the blunder, so I changed it to“To whom?” and pressed the green button.
George
I imagine, like a Viking warrior cry, and threw a spool of thread against the wall. 
she said 
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