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I had this conversation with my four year old yesterday
at the bus stop. “Hey, why do you have
fingers up both your nostrils? I'm keeping them warm." (like duh,
Mama, what does it look like I’m doing... Sigh.)
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I can't do any laundry. About thirty
seconds after turn the dryer on, it sounds like an emphysemic crow. Normally,
lack of laundry duties would be a cause to celebrate, but if we don't remember
to call the repair guy soon, I'm going to have to buy us all new undies.
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I went through the pre-op to repair the nerve
damage on my thumb. I have to fast for six hours before. Isn’t access to water
a UN human right or something? Seriously, even women in labour get ice chips.
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If Panda’s spelling abilities are an indicator of
future academic success, I may be better off using her college fund for early
intervention. I’m really beginning to wonder if we are dealing with a learning
disability. The word has three letters, we’ve been studying it for two weeks,
and somehow in spelling it those three letters never land in the same order
twice in a row. Which kills me, because both because I am a word-nerd and because
I know that kid is damn smart.
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Just how many syllables can the word ‘mama’ have,
anyway? I swear that at bedtime it goes up to at least six.
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I think that little boy bladders have a timer that
goes off thirty-seven seconds after lights-out.
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How long can this geriatric cat that never
remembers where the litter box is live? Another sixteen years? At this rate I
might be sent to the Happy Mousing Ground before she is. At least then S will
have to clean up all her ‘surprises’. Theoretically I could just leave them for
him to deal with, but even I can’t slack quite that badly on the housework.
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I’m still waiting for someone to make a gluten-free
Vietnamese sub. I miss bread SO MUCH. Damn you and your poisonous gluteny goodness.
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