I Got Nothing…

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My friend Wendy demanded I write something since I haven’t been blogging on her time schedule  (which is wretchedly demanding, and if we lived closer to each other I fear she would show up at my house at 3 am and smack me repeatedly in the left eye until I did her bidding.)

But I got nothing.

NOTHING.

Ok, well,  I WAS sick for the last week and a half with lungs that sounded gross enough for the doctor to drop his stethoscope and scream: “OH MY LORD JESUS DO THOSE THINGS SOUND WET! PREDNISONE AND ANTIBIOTICS STAT!” then he ran to another room weeping and washed his hands until they bled.

So there was that.

I have attempted to knit something for my mom for Christmas and since she might read this, I can’t tell you what it is, but I have ripped it out 5,467 times. She’s going to get this though, even if I have to buy it on Etsy and pretend I made it. (Love you, Mommy)

So there’s that.

Every time I pick up my twins from preschool, Twin A yells: “I DIDN’T SAY ANY BAD WORDS TODAY!” which is good because I have irresponsibly allowed him to listen to music that he shouldn’t, but Epic Rap Battles of History are hysterical. See what I mean watching Rick Grimes vs. Walter White:

Twin B woke me up out of a dead sleep this morning (dead because I took a bunch of Benedryl) at 5 am because he was soaked in pee. So soaked I could have wrung out his little Captain America Pajamas and created a one gallon tank for any peefish that might come along. I stripped him in my haze of antihistamine and then he started freaking out because Mr. Who refused to allow Pee-Blankie in bed with us. So I had to search through a clothes hamper for some dry clothes to put on his wet, pee laced skin, then he, of course, takes over most of the California King.

His feet were so cold, ice will now worship him and call him King. I think he might have stuck his big ice toe in my ear at some point, but again…Benedryl.

And that.

My oldest, Teen Who, is looking at colleges this week. It depresses and excites me at the same time. Hopefully he will do his homework and I won’t have to pull him out of school by his ear in front of all his friends.

So, I guess if you count possible pneumonia, knotty knitting, bad words, pee kids, and college bound kids, I have some stuff going on.

Crossing fingers for no Ebola.

Things My Kids Hate #2: Hummus

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When Teen Who was 4 years old, I inadvertently created a Hummus Hater. Hater of all Hummus.

He said I physically assaulted Him with it and to this day Has full body shivers when looking at the Hated Hummus. He won’t even touch anything that is near the Hummus container in the refrigerator.

The infamous Hummus Attack was over 13 years ago, and He still Hates Hummus with all His Heart.

My version (the true one):

Teen Who was a picky eater who only wanted to eat mac-n-cheese, hot dogs (CUT UP ONLY) with a side of ketchup, and Tubby Toast. (If you’re familiar with Teletubbies, they Had some sort of round bread type food or something, and I made cinnamon sugar toast and used a cutter to make it a circle, I was awesome). That’s all He would eat.

During this time, I discovered Hummus. I tried to get Him to try some one day, but He refused. He was opening the refrigerator and I was Holding a cracker with Hummus on it which just Happened to be at His mouth level. I was standing too close behind Him, so when He turned around to say something, the Hummus Cracker of Doom touched His lips and Hummus got on His tongue.

Here He did an Oscar worthy performance of someone dying from a Hideous disease, with lots of coughing, crying, gagging, cry-gagging, snot, shrieky accusations of How I did this on purpose, and He might have peed a little.

I felt terrible and never bugged Him with Hummus again.

His version (from a 4 year old’s perspective, remember):

I told Him He needed to try some Hummus, and reached into a 5 gallon vat of it (bare Handed) and smeared a fistful of it onto a cracker. I slowly approached Him as He backed away in fear. He took off through the living room, and I proceeded to chase Him around the House screaming: “EAT THE HUMMUS, NOW! EAT IT! EAT IT!” He begged me not to make Him eat it, but I stalked Him like a kitten with the plastic thingy from a milk jug. Then, I laughed, said it was ok, and went to another room.

Feeling safe, He went to the refrigerator to get a juice box, and when He turned around, I LEAPED/BANSHEE SCREAMED from behind the refrigerator door, SHOVED the Hummus-laden cracker into His mouth, clamped my hand over His lips, and sumo-wrestled Him onto the ground until He swallowed the Hummus Cracker of Pain and Death.

Then I laughed an evil/maniacal laugh, His vision blurred, and then everything went dark.

End Scene.

Some people say there’s 3 sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth. In this case, it’s His, mine, and mine. I remember exactly How it Happened, and I did feel bad, he was SO upset.

That’s really beside the point, though. If I were really going to be evil and force feed Him the Horrific Hummus on a cracker, it would Have been in a much more creative, and well thought out way.

And there would be Polaroids to prove it.

Things My Kids Hate #1: TV Breaks

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My kids have a really hard time understanding why they have to watch commercials sometimes.  I try to ‘splain the difference between watching something on cable versus the PS3 where we have Netflix and Amazon.  I tell them one is “cable box” and the other the “movie box” and sometimes I walk up to both (while giving a fantastic Vanna White impression) to point and explain again which has commercials, but they don’t get it.

We watched Ratatouille the other night on the PS3 – no commercials. This morning I found it on cable tv. Everything was right with the world until a commercial came on.

Twin B, the smaller one with an internal rage meter set to kill, asks disgustedly (for the 117th time):Doh, what’s dat fing?

Me: It’s a commercial, B.

Twin B: Well, what’s a mershel and why I gotta watch it?

Me: COMmercial, and I told you a hundred times. Sometimes the TV show needs a break so they show these little shows to get you excited about toys and Snackeez that you need to have immediately.

Twin A breaks in: Yeah, I need that fing! (points to a LEGO WCW ring)

Twin B: I don’t wanna watch the mershel. Make it stop. Radatoy don’t need a bweak.

Me: I can’t stop it. I have no control over what the TV does. And A, you’ll have to ask Santa for that.

Twin B: WAST night there weren’t no mershels when we watched da Radatoy.

Twin A: SANTA IS COMING??? NOW????

Me: Right, because we watched it on the (jumps up to Vanna point) movie box. And NO, Santa is not coming for a long time.

Twin B: Well, you can go get it on da movie box then.

Twin A: mumbles about Santa not coming

Me: Um, no, it’s almost time for school, and…(the screaming begins)

Twin B: I AM SO ANGRY!!! I HATE MERSHELS, THEY MAKE ME  SO MAD!!! (screams, stomps, throws Blankie in the air like he just don’t care)

He then picks up his cereal bowl and yells: I’M GONNA FWOW MY FWOOTY PETALS AT THE TV! I’M GONNA DO IT WIGHT NOW! (looks to make sure he has my attention). I’M GONNA DOOOOOOO IIIIIIT!!!

I jump up: Oh, you better not throw those Fwooty, er, FRUITY Pebbles anywhere, Mister!!

Twin A, who had his glorious shining “WTF hour of power” last night, came to the rescue: Well, Twin B, it’s ok, wook! The mershels over, see? We can watch Rata-too-ee again!

Twin B looks up, Ratatouille is back on, the sun came out, the angels sang, and his little 4 year old, 28 pound body returned to its pre-Hulk status. All was right with the world. For now.

Thank you, Twin A.

I hid in a closet waiting for the next mershel meltdown.

 

Weirdest Death Threat, Ever…

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Just to ease your mind right off the bat, the death threat was NOT to me. Most death threats directed towards me are probably from behind someone else’s steering wheel.

A friend of Mr. Who and mine came over the other night, and as we were generally chit chatting, he mentioned that after 12 years of having to work with the Worst Coworker in the History of Coworkers, the Worst Coworker was being moved laterally, horizontally, and possibly Hokey-Pokied into another department within the next 30 days.

Said friend, we will call him Ray Finkle for story purposes, told us this while gleefully rubbing his hands like Mr. Miyagi getting ready to HEATMELD Ralph Macchio’s leg back together. (Does anyone else do the Flamingo Kick when they’re alone? Oh, no? Yeah, me either…)

Now, I’m a bit vague on the details, the when, the why, the where, the how, but Ray Finkle told us that the Worst Coworker made a death threat to Ray and some others in their office. And I cannot wrap my mind around the improvisational intricacy of it.

It’s possible the Worst Coworker had thought this out long beforehand, eagerly awaiting the right moment to lay the Worst Coworker Smackdown on Ray Finkle, but if not, this was on the fly, and…well, I’ll just tell you.

Worst Coworker said:

“You better hope I don’t get a diagnosis of cancer with only 30 days left to live or you will have a shorter life span than me.”

That’s a seriously elaborate death threat right there. Like, he not only mentions possibly dying from cancer himself , but he’s planning on taking a few Good Coworkers down beforehand.

That’s kind of evil. Or ingenious. I’m not sure which. I just know that in the event I would ever make a death threat to someone, it would be more in the form of : “Oh, yeah? Well, I hope you get…uh…eaten by something…uh…large…and hungry, yeah!…with teeth the size of my leg, yeah, so TAKE THAT!”

I’m hardcore.

Hard.

Core.

So the moral of the story is: always have a really awesome death threat at your disposable. Just try not to wish cancer on yourself doing so.

New Series: Things My Kids Misinterpret #1: Get in My Belly!

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Items in this series will be short and sweet as I am probably rolling on the floor laughing while typing.

This video is one of my favorite Austin Powers scenes where Fat Bastard wants to eat Mini Me:

The words are:

“It kinda looks like a baby. Come here, I’m gonna eat you! I’m bigger ‘en you, I’m higher on the food chain! GET IN MY BELLAY! COME ON!”

What Who Twin A hears and acts out is:

“It Wooks Wike a Baby! Comere, Imma eat you! I’m biggerenyou I’m higher onna foochi! Get in my belly!”

It’s just so. damn. funny.

Don’t I Get Ice Cream for That?

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A few weeks ago I went to the Emergency Room, twice in 3 days. One day was the morning I was to leave on an overnight with Mr. Who for our 5th anniversary, and the other was the morning I was to go to see “Night Under Fire” at the racetracks.

It all started with Twin Ick.

Both the Who Twins had croup within a few days of each other. It sounded like the seal den at Sea World with all the barking around here from those two. Twin A refused to take medicine. There was no liquid I could hide it in. I begged, cajoled, cried, pleaded, and (I’m ashamed to admit it) threatened to take Blankie away if he didn’t take it. That just made him cry and bark more.

He needed Motrin, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way. And when I say we I mean Mr. Who, and when I say old-fashioned, I mean up the wahoo…(I hope “wahoo” is a universal term, or there might be some serious misunderstandings).

Turns out Wahoo medicine doesn’t hurt at all, and Twin A kinda grew to like it. Now we’ve created a Wahoo monster. It’s ok for now, but I’m not doing it when he’s a teenager.

I have limits.

Twin B drinks his juice so often and so quickly, I could probably hide a bowl of mac-n-cheese in it and he wouldn’t know, or care.  So he was not a lucky recipient of the Wahoo medicine.

They finally got better, then yours truly starts feeling it. Not the croup, although, that would have been interesting as a 42 year old.  I would have totally taped myself barking like a seal.

I thought at first it was allergies. I CANNOT be getting sick. I have been waiting for this anniversary trip for 364 days. Monday, I’m feeling “eh”. Tuesday I’m feeling: “ehhhhhh”, and Wednesday morning, the morning of the trip, I couldn’t swallow and somehow Khan snuck into my home and shoved 18,000 earwigs into my ears.

“KHAAAAAAAAAAN!”

The PAIN! Oh. Em. Gee. It hurt so bad. I was scared to swallow, but was so thirsty. I wanted to drink a gallon of water. I never want to drink a gallon of water until I can’t.  Swallowing hurt and I ached from head to toe. Like ran over with a truck, then run over by a steamroller, then used as a flyswatter by Godzilla. I crawled into the ER, begging for relief. You know what they gave me at the hospital?

NOTHING.

Where were my painkillers? My saline? My antibiotic??

I got nothing but one little nausea pill and a few to take home.

B-words…

So I went home, and somehow after a few hours of back and forth got Mr. Who to take me away anyway. I mean, come on, would you rather get over something HUGE like Pharyngitis (yeah, apparently we have pharnyxes) alone or with kids jumping on you?

So we went, watched a lot of movies and I started feeling better.

Then came Saturday morning where my ears hurt again so bad, I was begging for the olden days of 18,000 earwigs. I drive myself to the ER, stumbled in, and whispered: “please help me, I’m going to throw up”…Just so you know, when “vomit” is mentioned, the nice nurses in triage take you in much faster.

THIS ER doctor couldn’t BELIEVE the other one sent me home without an antibiotic since I had a raging case of…

Wait for it…

Tonsillitis.

But not really, because my tonsils weren’t really swollen, there was just nothing else to call it. It was a mystery.

So yes, I, CarrieLouWho, aged 42, went to the ER twice for tonsillitis.

Who goes to the ER for that??? Me.

I missed Night Under Fire.

And I couldn’t even eat any ice cream.

 

My Child Ate the Class Pet

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Ok, he didn’t actually eat the class pet, more like just bit off its nose…

And it wasn’t really a class pet in the “OMG! CarrieLouWho’s child ate a living, breathing animal!” sense…

But it was still something that Twin A will need to explain  to the class.

The kids in the class each get a day to take home the class pet, play with it, and then using the first person, write in the class pet book what the pet did that night. Twin B got to take him home first, where the pet was held, carried, and treated more delicately and gently than I did with them as babies.

The next day Twin A got to take him home.

What happened next, I take almost all the blame.

You see, 4 year olds can take things literally. Because they are 4.

I, jokingly, said we were going to cut up the class pet and make burgers out of it. I said it would taste delicious. I laughed and giggled, and told them what kind of condiments I would put on it and everything.

I did this. Me.

Next thing I know, Twin A comes running to me telling me that he ate part of the pet. He showed me where he brutally and gleefully gnawed on it, and like Hannibal Lecter, spit out the flap of meat onto the counter.

I was horrified! How was I going to explain this to the teacher?? To his classmates?? Having been a teacher prior to the twins, I shook my head and sadly said: “Oh, man, you’re going to spend so many days in the principal’s office.”

I took the pet away, and my son, the one who JUST ATE PART OF THE PET, called ME a “jerk”!  He said I was mean, and he didn’t like me anymore, and I was a “jerky buttfaced poo-poo head”… it was pretty funny, I admit.

I told the teacher this morning, who giggled, and assured me she had a bunch of pets, and the kids would never know…yeah, except I wrote about the whole thing in the Pet Diary!

It went something like this:

“At Twin A’s house I got to play outside, go down the slide, and had fun. Then Twin A’s mom said I would taste good on a bun with mustard and Twin A took her seriously. It hurt a little when he bit off a chunk of my nose, but his mom promised she would pay for my surgery.”

I took a picture for posterity, and also for high school graduation purposes, you can see the top of the nose floating in there all lonely and sad:

photoWe’re definitely not going to let him take home anything alive for awhile…

 

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