When at the airport last week I brought along a nice biography. My aunt was in line behind me (she is very well read, being a playwright and all). I set my book down on the little podium and handed my e-ticket to the security lady. I walked on.
As I stood in line, my Aunt approached me saying, "I think you forgot something," and handed me my book. "I figured that if anyone was going to carry around a biography of Thomas Hardy, it would be you." She gave a little chuckle, "Now don't lose that."
She keeps calling me a writer. I had a good laugh whenever she would say that. She also kept saying that because we are writers that we feel things "more deeply than others." My aunt is the meaning of drama in the form of a person (and I suppose she would be, being a playwright). She told me it was nice to meet my friend Laura and I said to her, "She is a good friend, much like your friend Linda." Her eyes lit up. "You know, Linda who was on the Johnny Carson show with you."
She nodded agreement without missing a beat and said, "Yes, yes. We are very famous, very famous."
She carries a cane. She accused me of having my sights on it because it was from Mt. Vernon. She said that Mt. Vernon's gift shop is a place where you can not leave without buying half the store. You can go crazy and buy an Indian tepee kit, a Revolutionary War flute, George Washington dolls, muskets, tea sets, Civil War dice, peace pipes, Confederate hats, and of course, canes.
But on another note I am losing my mind. The boys are supposed to be practice testing and it is just not going the too wonderful. They can not shut their mouths and work. I keep yelling some and I wonder if the real cause of it is that I have a monstrous pile of ironing to do in my closet and it is intimidating. Since coming back I have been behind ridiculously with laundering. I finally finished washing all the clothes and putting them away, but the ironing keeps piling up. Dear Sir needs to stop wearing shirts.
So since Eraser Eater is crippled I am going to keep him out of gym today and just allow the Girl and The Oldest to traipse around and get red. He seems to be doing much better, but really it is folly to even think of allowing him to run around with other crazy kids. I remember when we were in the ER and the nurse put the brace on his neck he said, "Oh! Dis is nice! I don't have to hold my head up!" Ever since he has been milking the special treatment for all it is worth and talking like a baby on top of it. He even wet his undies this morning.
Anyone who thinks that once your children get to a certain age you don't have to deal with secretions anymore, you are kidding yourself. It was only last night that I had the Girl go #2 and she called me up to wipe her rear like she always does. Since her bowel problems have been real true problems over the years, I feel chained to the sound of her voice when it says, "Mom! I went!" The size of that bad boy was unbelievable. How she produced such a mammoth piece of waste and did not split in half, I have no idea. She did not even cry, which is a miracle. She gave me a sour face instead.
"That pupper is not going to go down," I said in low tones. I imagined pumping that stupid porcelain bowl for at least a half hour. Maybe it would take all night. Even with the power plunger. That sucker would need the snake.
"It will clog?! What can you do?!"
I went downstairs and grabbed a spatula that I knew I would never use again. It was nice and firm and did the trick. I dipped the spatula in the toilet and sawed that thing in half.
"You had hamburgers!" I laughed.
Actually, that is scary, because does beef really break down? Let's just not talk about it....