Me: (after being corrected on the “proper” way to say the name of a fictional tribe from a book) Huh. My book didn’t come with a pronunciation guide, can I see yours then?
Last night around 2:30 A.M. I awoke to the dulcet sounds of at least one smoke detector going off. Even as groggy as I was, the smell in the air was thick enough that I paused to place my hand on the door to determine if it was hot before opening it, then . . . nothing. The door was cool, the alarm(s) silenced themselves, and I was the only one awake in the house. If not for the rapidly dissipating scent lingering in the air, I might have wondered what had just happened.
The scent was scorched dust though.
Last night there had been what passes for a “cold snap” around here, and I’d turned the heater on before going to bed. Evidently, around 2:30 is when the (rarely ever used) heater kicked in, and I imagine you can figure out the rest yourself.
Nice to know everything works around here, at least.
For someone so dedicated to the concept of “if you can’t make it better, at least don’t make it worse,” I have a lousy track record, particularly as a parent. On the plus side though, I have managed over time to gradually increase my number of successes, and this morning was one of those all too rare successes.
“Yes, son, I still love you even after you’ve thrown something directly at my face. I know it was an accident and it was a soft block and didn’t do any damage, but just in case my look of surprised fury didn’t clue you in . . . don’t throw things at my face.”
I could try to be funnier about this, but, bluntly, this is one of those days I’m just thankful I don’t feel any worse.
Every holiday has its traditional icons, but one of the least talked about icons is the “holiday possum.” Strongly related to the “weekend possum” and the “day-off possum,” the holiday possum remains perfectly still in bed, mimicking sleep in the often vain hope that the child(ren) of the house will leave them be for at least a few minutes more.
So not only did we get caught up on schoolwork yesterday, I found yet another reason to be thankful because this morning I was asked to bring in a seventy-plus pound freezer and I have a hand truck.
People keep asking me if I’m thankful that the construction around here is done, and while the answer is a weary “yes,” I’ll be more thankful once we’ve caught up on the last of the school work we’re still behind on because of all the disruptions over the past three months.
I was mostly joking, of course, when on Friday I inquired about the existence of post-traumatic home reconstruction disorder.
Having had the weekend to observe myself though, I’m reconsidering if I was really joking or not.
