Now Accepting Applications

"Can I get married when I'm bigger?" Alexis asked. The question came out of absolutely nowhere. One minute we were debating whether the grapes she was eating were purple or red, the next we were talking about plans that better not become reality for another twenty, no thirty . . . wait, no FORTY years.

"If you want to, I guess you can," I replied. It was sort of a lame answer, but the kid caught me off guard when she went from vehemently defending Team Red Grapes to talking about her wedding in under three seconds.

Since she had permission to get married, the four-year old continued on, telling me all the sordid details. She planned to wear a pink dress with a bow and her hair would be long and curly and pulled back in a ponytail. She would wear Big Girl Makeup, including pink lipstick, and pretty pink shoes with heels. As she continued on and on, I quickly scanned my brain for the identity of the person who obviously had been talking about weddings with her and added that person to my To Be Destroyed List.

Once that little issue was mentally resolved, I interrupted Alexis' rambling to ask a few questions. "Who are you going to marry?" I asked. I expected her to list one of her many boyfriends.

"Ummm . . . I don't know," she replied. She went silent for a moment before asking, "Can you find me a husband?"

"Sure," I replied. I mean, who doesn't dream about arranging their own kid's wedding forty years before the big event? ::eyeroll::

"I need a handsome husband," she quickly added.

"Of course," I replied. She needn't have worried. I can't be arranging for my kid to marry somebody who got hit with the Ugly Stick.

"So, are you going to cook for your husband?" I asked.

"Nooooo!" Alexis answered quickly. It was like she had spent hours already figuring out her answer to that question.

"Then who is going to do the cooking?" I asked.

"You are!" she replied. Funny that, considering that the thing I do can only very barely be considered "cooking." If there were more hours in a day, maybe, but not as things are now.

"OK, so then are you going to do the cleaning?" I asked. I fully expected her to tell me that I would be responsible for that part as well. Which, um, HAHAHAHAHAHA! That will never happen.

"No, my husband is going to do all the cleaning," she replied.

I have taught her well.

First World Problems

Whether my car is suicidal or homicidal is an issue that is up for debate, but let's just say right now it's at the shop. Again. To the tune of $2300. (If you see me openly weeping for the next, oh, six months, that's why. It's going to take forever to recover from that unexpected expense.) Fortunately, we have three vehicles, so I've been lucky enough to just steal Mr. Husband's shiny little car for the past few days. He's been stuck driving our really old, really big pick-up truck that doesn't have air conditioning, so I will never complain about how I've been forced to drive a manual.

Except for this one time.

So. While Mr. Husband is pouring sweat in a pleather-seated hot box, I've been trying to relearn how to drive a stick shift. It had been at least ten years since I had done it (side note: WHAT THE FRACKITY FRACK! How did I get to be old enough to reminisce about ten years ago? </side note>). I kinda sorta remembered and have successfully driven the car to run errands a few times, but Friday was the first time I had to drive the thing in traffic.

Like, REAL traffic.

For some reason, traffic after work Friday was terrible, awful, and no good. I needed to meet Mr. Husband to give him Alexis because she didn't want to go to my softball game with me, which was fine, except that apparently everyone else was headed to meet him as well. In my valiant attempts to get around the throngs of people, we wound up completely stuck on a main road. We were just behind a merge point with the interstate, so traffic was extra backed up as people attempted to take turns moving forward.

Normally the whole concept of a merge point is a disaster, but that day it was especially tragic. We didn't move for a solid ten minutes (Funny how having an iPhone makes it easy to figure stuff like that out. Ahem.). Then, we finally started to move a tiny bit, but then we stopped again. Then we moved a tiny bit more, but we stopped again. And again and again and again and AGAIN.

Oh, did I mention that this whole thing was while on a hill? Facing upward? You know, the kind of hills that are known for burning out a clutch or two? Yes, indeed.

I would have been 100% focused on not stalling out and yet not burning out the clutch all the way up that hill, but there was just one more problem. Directly behind me was one of Them. Those People.

Those People who make it a mission to make sure not a single person gets in front of them as cars merge.

The old guy was leaned over his steering wheel, eyes bulging as he painstakingly fought to make sure there was never more than an inch between our bumpers. He flipped drivers off on his left when they signaled and tried to motion that they wanted over. He nearly rammed cars on his right when the drivers tried to pretend they didn't see him. He stayed glued to my bumper like Lindsay Lohan's lips to a liquor bottle.

In the meantime, I fought like crazy to not let my car slip backwards into his car. I couldn't hit the brakes since the split second it takes to get from the brake to the gas would have been enough to cause a domino effect of an accident. I had to ride that clutch like a pro.

While Alexis sat in the back seat singing, "All I wanna do is zooma-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom. Now shake your rump!"

Try that, people. Go ahead, try it. Try to stay focused on something serious while your kid is jamming some Old School tunes in the back. Make sure the kid is bopping her cute little head, wearing her ridiculous flower-shaped sunglasses, and fist-pumping as she sings, though. That part is important.

If stress could be turned to cash and used to buy a new car, I would've came home with a Ferarri F430 Spider on Friday. It would've had to have been an automatic, though.

*********************************************************************

Psst . . . there is a new giveaway going on over here.

Ali 0, Belly 1

Our five-month old kitten, Ali, has taken up permanent residence in the kitchen. It's not because she thinks she'll get something cat-rific to eat. It's not because there's some magical piece of cat furniture in there. It's not because I rubbed catnip all over the floor. It's because the saltwater aquarium is in there.

She has decided that it is Her Job to monitor the clownfish, Belly, in there at all times.

She stares at Belly. She glares at Belly. She jumps, lunges, smacks, and tries to attack Belly. Each and every time the aquarium glass comes between Ali and a tasty fishy meal, she looks surprised. She doesn't strike me as a dumb cat, but obviously she's the very definition of crazy. She tries over and over and over and over to catch that beast of a fish.

I grew a little tired of the fuzzy four-legged pogo stick in my kitchen, so I decided to do a little experiment. I wondered what Ali would do if I left the cover off the aquarium and let her see Belly up close and personal. Now, while Belly is a fairly small fish (about two inches long), she is the Chuck Norris of Perculas. She has a history of beating the life out of things much bigger than her, so I had no doubt she could take down a five-pound kitten if it came to that.

I picked up Ali, lifted the lid on the aquarium, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At last Ali glanced at the water, and then turned to glare at me, as if to say, "You know I only drink sparkling water from a remote Norwegian glacier." As she tried to destroy me with a fatal Kitty Stare, suddenly her tail flicked and her eyes snapped back to the water.

Belly had come to the surface to say, "Hi." Or to mooch food. Or to kill someone. I'm never really quite sure with that fish. I just know not to stick my hands in the water unless I'm wearing a thick rubber glove because she DOES bite. And hard.

Now, while our other cat, Powder, frequently hangs out in the shower (really), Ali hates water. I mean, she HATES it. If you've ever wondered if a water-phobic kitten would put aside that fear and go swimming in an aquarium if it meant a chance at a tasty fishy meal, the answer is YES. Yes, she will. Ali lunged for Belly and the only thing that stopped her from going for a swim was that she smacked her head on the back half of the aquarium cover. She managed to dredge one leg through the water, all the way to the tippy top of the leg.

Belly didn't even flinch. You know, because she's evil.

Ali spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to lift the aquarium cover.

If this rivalry keeps up, I'm putting my money on the fish.