You sure?

Had a manicure on Saturday. First one in years. It went okay except for two things--which, actually, when you think about it, is kind of a lot of things going not okay when all you're doing is sitting in a chair while someone else paints your nails pink.

First of all: the giant TV that was playing an infomercial for Plan Canada, which sponsors tired and hungry children around the world and is a very excellent thing and something that I personally support. That much said, it is still a horror to be paying the equivalent of two weeks' nourishment for a Ugandan family of five for the not-so-very-life-threatening service of cuticle removal--WHILE THE STARVING FAMILY GAZES WEAKLY AT YOU FROM A 50-INCH PLASMA SCREEN. I think I have been cured of manicures forever.

Second, half-way through the manicure, Queenie turns the light onto my face and says "You want me to take care of your brow too?" When I demurred, she looked at me incredulously. "You sure?" I was. Queenie again: "We do your brow, that lip and your chin. 20 dollars." THAT LIP? MY CHIN?

I went in looking for something pricessy and came out feeling like a selfish evil hairy troll--and, wait for it--a selfish evil hairy troll with "Your a Pisa Work" pink nails.

The H Word

Kid swears. He's picked up "damn" from Indiana Jones, and he and his little cabal mutter it under their breath when they drop crackers on the floor, break a pencil tip, or miss the sink when spitting toothpaste. I've decided neither to crack the hell up nor to overtly comment on it one way or the other and hope the thing clears itself up before school starts. Speaking of hell, Kid has also learned--probably from one of those damed 7-year-olds--that there is a swear word that starts with the letter "h," and he is trying like anything to figure out what it could possibly be.

Laur, halibabby.
That's not it, Lief.
Hostinfeffer.
That's "hasenpfeffer," and no, that's not it.
Hambiltung.
Nope.
Hunkomore.
Cute, but no. Drop it.
Hoochalordy. Hink. Horrible-toilet-tongue-sandwich.

He got up in the middle of last night, stumbled into our room and pronounced "Halibut." As I scooted him back down the hallway, his eyes only half open and the rest of him almost completely asleep, he kept trying. "Hello. Helium. Hi. Huge. Henry."

"Go the hell to sleep," I whispered lovingly, as he drifted back to dreamland.

For Alpha Monkey

Your peonies require sticky-footed ants. Mine require brute force.

One down, 22 to go

Assuming that he goes on to get a PhD in the family tradition (every family has traditions--ours are just dorkier and more desperate than those of normal families), Kid now has only 22 more years of education to complete, having graduated from kindergarten yesterday. We're just about free and clear!

He's clearly treating this occasion with all the solemnity it deserves.

Asthma

Poor Kid. No more pop. No more ice cream. No more cookies. NO MORE SPEARMINT GUM.

If there's a bright side, I suppose he might not have such a fat mommy in a couple of weeks, if I stick to my promise to go on his anti-asthma diet with him. I might have worse breath, though.

Worn Ragged Productions Presents (again):

Indiana Jams and the Last Crusade (Part 2)

INT: CRUSADER'S CAVE--DAY

Miraculously revived, our hero tries again. This time he chooses a more plastic-looking cup:



So far, so good. Down the hatch!


AAAAAND: YES! Indiana wins his very own wooden Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword sword! Excellent morning!


Next adventure: Indy takes a bath!

Worn Ragged Productions Proudly Presents:

Indiana Jams and the Last Crusade

Part 1

INT: CRUSADER'S CAVE--DAY

Indiana Jones (feeling a little ill and hence still in his flannel jams at 11.30 am) surveys the range of drinking vessels, one among which is the chalice from which Jesus (whoever that might be) drank at his "final dinner."


He chooses a fine-looking piece of glassware, dips it into the basin, and drinks from it:


Oops.