Four things

1) It's my birthday today and nothing bad happened!  I was on quite a streak for a while there, what with finding people guilty of murdering their mothers, having Chris work all day while Owen pooped on the floor, and Chris having a seizure, but it seems my birthday mojo got turned around this year.

The people I work with brought hummus and ice-cream bars to the office, a friend got me flowers, my sister-in-law BROUGHT ME LUNCH.  It was like being in the hospital, but better, because I didn't have to be in the hospital.


2) My work started a new health initiative wherein they give you money on a quarterly basis, basically for wearing a pedometer around.

The stress of keeping track of that stupid god-forsaken pedometer is taking YEARS off my life.


3) If you click around on this blog creation page (don't ask me how, because I don't know.  It just sometimes happens somehow) you find a record of how people get to this blog page.

It turns out that if I do become famous, it will be because pregnant ladies want to eat laundry detergent.

UNITE MY PICA SISTERS!

Except also, I can never be famous.  It's been a while since I read the comments for that post, but I'm pretty sure one lady was like, "M'am.  It's really unhealthy to eat laundry detergent.  Do you not love your baby?"

That wasn't really my point.


4) My sister's wedding was AWESOME and we should throw fabulous parties more often.

By the way, a balloon artist went to Sam's camp last week, so now he's all, "Balloon Man Chaz can come to family events, you know."

But, MAN am I glad that wedding speech is over.  Do you suppose it is always stressful or do I just over think things?

Zowening Out

Oh, Owen.  He’s such a little puddin’ pop. I just love that kid. 

A few years back, I was sitting a minute in his room before bed.

Side note: Sitting a minute (or “sitaminute” – it’s now its own verb.  Or noun?  I don't know.  We played MadLibs recently and I am freshly aware of how bad I am at identifying parts of the English language) is an institution in our house. 

Lilly regularly asks me to “Sitaminute for five hours.”

I’m not sure sitaminute means what she thinks it means. 

Anyhow, I was sitaminuting with Owen one night a few years ago and he said, “Mom, I just want you to know that when I turn four, I won’t be here anymore.  I won’t wake up again.”

And I was like, “Um.  Don’t say shit like that.  Stop being creepy.”  

I actually don’t remember what I really said to him, but I do remember being kind of a little worried for, like, the entire year he was four.  Just in case.  Because I've read that book.  It doesn't end well for the kid. 

But, here he is, all five years old and shit, and not only is he still hanging around, he wakes up on a daily basis. 

I’m not surprised.  If Owen did, in fact, get a message from the spirit world, or some kind of vision into the future, it was probably something like, “you will get a new bed and get a full night’s sleep,” or, “you will die when you are 104,” or “You will eat a doughnut,” and he just misunderstood.    

He’s a real sweet kid, but he’s quite often wrong about stuff. 

He does this thing where Sam will say something ridiculous.  Like, RIDICULOUS, and, in response, Owen will say, dead serious, with a clear voice and unwavering gaze, “Dat is true.” 

And then I have to decide whether to take the time to correct him (“That is not true.  That is a bruise, not a chicken pox.  You do not have chicken pox, and even if you did, you did not get them eating chicken.”) or let it go and risk having him grow up, firm and steady in his belief that he had Chicken Pox when he was five. 

Last night, he said he was having a hard time sleeping because he was worried about going to jail, or getting captured, or getting kidnapped.  I wanted to tell him there is no such thing, but I couldn't.  So I said that he just needs to stay close to mom and dad, and we will protect him, but if anybody ever DOES try to take him he needed to just go bananas. 

“Like, I should tewl you?”

“Well, no, because if you could just tell me, you probably wouldn't be being kidnapped.  So, no, you’ve gotta scream really loud and flail around and drop to the ground or run or something.” 

As if Owen could go faster than a dignified trot. 

He looks at me, all dubious, “I don’t know how to do dat.”

“Well, how about you just stick close and don’t talk to strangers?”

But he got me thinking about kidnappers, and then I couldn't sleep anymore, either.  

No pressure

I’m trying to write a speech for my sister’s wedding.  It’s been slow going.  So I did what we all do in times of trouble these days: I turned to Google.

I certainly wasn't thinking of plagiarizing a speech whole-hog (yes I was), but I was a little dismayed at the quality of stuff out there.

The pre-written speeches I could have "recycled" were not of a quality that I thought worthy of thieving.

Also: advice columnists!  Seriously!  Could you possibly be any less helpful with your advice? 

I read one article titled something like, “How to write a funny speech for your sister’s wedding.”  And I’m thinking, “oh, that’s pretty relevant.” 

Here is a summary of the article:

A Maid of Honor’s speech is the most important thing at the wedding.  It is actually the most important thing in your life, and in the Bride’s life, ever.  It will be remembered forever.  If you give a good speech, it means you love your sister.  If your speech is shitty, it means you hate your sister.  A crap speech will probably cause a permanent rift in your family.  Here are some tips on how to write a great speech.

1)      Tell people who you are (that actually is a little helpful.  I probably would have forgotten that).

2)      Tell funny stories about when you were little.

3)      Add a hilarious anecdote about how the couple met.

4)      Throw in a few sassy quips to lighten the mood.

5)      Make use of one of your talents, such as singing, dancing, or poetry, by incorporating that talent in your speech.

Sooooooooo.  Basically, if I want to be funny, I should accomplish that by being funny, and then I should sing her a little song.  That I wrote myself.  

Actually, that probably would have been funny.

But not in a good way.  

This phone call happened to me

I'm at work and the phone rings.

Let me pause for a minute to explain that I work in research administration.  Which means I work with research proposals and protocols and things like that.  But that's pretty much it.

So I answer the phone (that was my first mistake . . .) and this lady starts talking a mile a minute about her medical records and how she wants a copy but can't get a copy but people said she could have a copy but then only sent her forms to fill out and, ooooo, that made her made so she called our lawyers and he promised he would make sure she got her records but she still doesn't have her records.

Um.  Ma'am?  I don't really work in medical records.  I'm not the medical records office.  I really can't help with medical records.

So she says she KNOWS I'm not medical records and she doesn't want to talk to medical records anymore.

Um.  I'm not sure I was the right choice.

She says she thinks it's time to get a lawyer and that I'm going to have to pay for her lawyer.

Good luck with that.

She's taking NOTES, she says.  Keeping track of the names of everyone she's talking to.

(She's does not at this point, or any other point, ask for my name.)

She says she's been trying to get her records for OVER A YEAR.  SINCE 2008.

Ma'am?  It's been WELL over a year since 2008.

Well, she says, maybe 2009, then.

Ma'am?  I can hear that you are really frustrated, and I would be too, but I seriously have nothing to do with medical records.  I WANT to help you, but I CAN'T help you, so I don't know HOW to help you.  Can I put you in touch with medical records or the lawyer's office again?  Perhaps a patient advocate?

No, No, No.

She wants to go to the top.  No more playing around.  She's already messed around with those other people.  She knows for SURE that we have her records, because she called the other hospital in the area and described the building in which her procedure too place.  They said it was us.  And she needs her records.  Because, apparently, her "body systems aren't working."

That does sound serious.

So I gave her the CEO's number.

What?  If he doesn't want people calling him, he shouldn't put his number in the directory.

These animals should be off-display

When we got home tonight, Owen asked if he could play out in the front yard.  They generally aren't allowed to - closer to the street, more accessible to kidnappers, more visible to neighbors who don't need to know how weird my kids are, etc.  

But, hey, it's a holiday weekend, live a little.

By the way, on the car ride home, Owen said he was going to share his granola bar with Lilly, because it's really important that you be nice on the day before St. Patrick's Day.  

Okay, three things here.

1) I'm not sure "being nice" is one of the hallmarks of St. Patrick's Day.

2) It's July 3rd

3) I just let it go because I was happy he was sharing his granola bar.  

So, anyhow, I told Owen and Lilly they could play out front for a while while I watched from the dining room.  

The following is a list of the first 3 things they did.

1) Stand motionless until a car drove by, and then made a mad dash toward the car.

2) Heckled slow moving cars.  And, for some reason, red cars.

3) Played dead on the lawn.

All of these things are, apparently, quite alarming to drivers passing by.  

I hustled them into the backyard.  It kind of made me think about taking animals off display at the zoo. 

Which reminded me about when the hippo at our zoo went into retirement.  All of a sudden, the hippo wasn't there anymore.  So Chris asks one of the zoo employees, who said that the hippo was retired and would no longer be on exhibit.

And Chris, eyebrows a-waggling, was like, "'Retired, retired?'"

And the lady, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, was like, "Yeah.  Retired."

And Chris leans in and whispers, "Like, dead?"

The lady was horrified.