I’d forgotten.
Saturday afternoon reminded me.
I needed a nap. It wasn’t even optional, as I was nodding off in the “upright and locked” position. So I snuggled Charlotte, nibbled on her thighs (because, you know, Cute Aggression), and scratched her tummy until she dozed off. Then I curled up on the opposite side of the sectional, with a fuzzy purple blanket, hoping to catch an hour before she woke.
Music softly playing, eyes gratefully closed, consciousness ebbing away as logical thought became nonsense… when suddenly pudgy little hands steal the fleecy covers. My eyes open to Charlotte vaulting onto my head from bouncy couch cushions. “M.E.! I wake!” “Yes, Doodle Bug, I see that. “You wanna watch Daniel Tiger?” I ask.
I flip on Netflix, confident she would engage in the electronic entertainment and allow me a half hour undisturbed.
Why can’t my internal optimist EVER be right?
“M.E. I hundy.”
“No you aren’t, we just ate lunch.”
Though unable to unglue my eyelids, I still distinguish the sounds of her unzipping and rummaging through my purse. Click, clasp, smack. Then sticky fingers tapping my face, “M.E., dipstick. See?” Squinting slightly I detect, heavily smeared lipstick surrounding her mouth. She looks like a tiny Vegas showgirl.
“M.E. I need dink.”
I debate the options, knowing she probably is thirsty and also knowing I should de-clown her little face, but lamenting leaving the warmth of the purple fleece. But I do, because, you know, I love her, and she’s cute. But mostly because she won’t leave me alone until I do.
Back to the couch, toddler on the loveseat with her bottle of water, I recline and regain the warmth.
“M.E., you go nigh nigh?”
Yes, baby. You watch Daniel Tiger and let M.E.take a little nap, okay?
Seconds later her breath is warming my face, followed by her fingers poking my eyeballs.
“Charlotte, don’t poke me in the eyes, it hurts.”
“Sowwy. M.E.? M.E.? M.E?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I wuuuuv you.”
Oh my. Too much cuteness. I grab her and swing her up onto me and squeeze her for a minute. “I love you MORE!” I insist.
“I wuv you mostest!”
My heart melts for the twelfth time today. But my eyes are still begging for some semblance of sleep.
“Charlotte, would you rather listen to Annie?”
“AnNIE, AnNIE! Ya ya!”
She begins to dance in anticipation of her favorite musical score.
I flip over to the Pandora station and attempt, once again, to lie down.
She starts her sing-along with the introductory prelude. I obviously can’t sleep through this, but at least my eyes are closed. It’s a step in the right direction.
Again, I feel her hovering over my face: “M.E.? Otay?”
I peek one eye open to see her holding her water bottle. “Otay?” she asks again. I tell her yes, but she seems unsure. “M.E.? OTAY?” she queries again as she shows me her water bottle. I reiterate my approval, assuming she is asking to drink her water. Smiling, she turns the bottle over and deliberately drenches the ottoman.
Well, I DID just give her permission.
“He he he, I dup idout. I get napin and wipe idup. Otay?”
Sigh. Yes, baby. Get a napkin and wipe it up. Whatever. I let my eyes fall closed yet again as I listen to her drag a dining chair across the floor, climb up onto the counter for what turns out to be the equivalent of three trees’ worth of napkins, and toddle back to dry up the squishy ottoman.
The soft serenade of “Tomorrow” in the background now as the sweetness of sleep engulfs me.
Scene change. Charlotte mimics the choreography of the on-screen girls and whacks me in the head with a throw pillow.
Yep. It’s a Hard Knock Life.
Giving it up, I get up and dance with her. And make coffee.
“M.E., I go Mommy now?”
You betcha, baby. I strap her in for the 12-minute drive back to her house.
And, as fate would have it, she fell asleep before we pulled out of the driveway.
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.)
he giveaway is a Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea game? Icky Yucky Ooky. She may only be five years old, but she’s smart enough to know that Jules Verne, and for that matter, all Science Fiction stuff is for boys. And she did NOT want boy stuff. No thank you very much. Besides, surely they wouldn’t call out a girl’s name for a boy’s toy. That would just be mortifying – like that awkward moment when the boy in front of you toots and then looks at you so everybody else will think it WAS you. She’s rather die. But she told herself there was nothing to worry about. Only a 1 in 30 chance even if they DID include the girls, “Which they wouldn’t,” she thought just as they announced … HER name. WHAT? NOOOOO!
And that, boys and girls, was the beginning of my lucky streak. I have gone on to win tickets and gift certificates to nice restaurants and books and videos and essay competitions and savings bonds and a video player and $200 in a photo contest and numerous cds, weekend getaways, a smart tv, and if you have EVER been to a “sales party” with me, be it Pampered Chef or Creative Memories or Tupperware or whatever, you know my name is ALWAYS the one that gets drawn for the door prize. Always.
compartments with magnetic snaps, a separate pouch for the progressive trifocals I never wear, and a small zippered pocket so I always know where to locate my elusive keys.
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.
she said 
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