I am about to delete this thing. I will turn moderation off. Bee convinced me.
Not that there is much to moderate. I am just ridiculously busy. I have recently taken up a worship leader/coordinator role at my church so that is taking some time. I am having quite a great time arranging old hymns and making them spunky. My next project is "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent" and "Christ the Lord is Risen Today". We will see how that all pans out.
And it looks like I may teach three literature classes this fall, so the intense reading and note-taking will ensue.
My Girl just got over pneumonia, and Eraser Eater had a major asthma attack on Friday, resulting in his oxygen level being severely low and his lung capacity even lower. When they finally got him to 75% capacity level they allowed us to step out of the office and toward home with a hefty prescription and instructions. When I didn't have the flu, I was taking care of ailing people. Heck, when I had the flu I was taking care of people.
"What does that mean?" The Oldest said.
We were listening to "Eight Days a Week" on the radio.
"It's a Beatles song. You know, the guy loves the girl so much that he loves her MORE than just seven days a week, see, it's pretty clever," I said, stepping on the gas.
"I don't see what's so clever about that. There aren't eight days in a week. It makes them look dumb. I don't get it."
"Forget it then."
"Yeah, ok. Hey Eraser Eater, this kid in class told me about a game you can play online that you can design yourself. He designed a stupid game where a bear catches hamburgers for points!"
Anything with design and Eraser Eater is ON IT.
"What is this game?!" he hollered.
"It is just a game where you can design your own game if you want," answered the Oldest.
"Where do you find it?"
"On the internet! You go on the internet! Do I have to keep saying it!?"
"WHERE ON THE INTERNET, OLDEST? HUH? I WANT ANSWERS HERE!" He made sure that he growled and laughed all at the same time as he said this.
I burst out laughing against the steering wheel.
"How's he so funny?" the Oldest gave me a half-grin that meant he barely got the humor.
"The boy is just clever," I confessed.
But he doesn't get clever or humor. Poor old sap.