Rambly Mumble Rumblings
2004-10-22, 12:38 a.m.

Tomorrow, Daughter is going camping with her Girl Scout troop.

Real camping.

Pottyless camping.

I am not going. I cannot pee behind a tree. My dainty little @ss would get chafed on all that bark and I have no desire to get poison ivy in an inaccessible locale. We shall see how Daughter fares. She is currently unaware of the untoileted fate that awaits her.

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Thursday�s fortune:

You can open doors now with a combination of charm and patience.

Yeah, I can use my hands, too.

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Tomorrow has an impossible schedule.

Morning: Drop off Hubby at work 10 miles away in another town, get back in time to haul Daughter and Son to two different schools. Oh, Daughter�s school starts at 7:40, and she has to be there by 7:30 to have time to stop by her locker. Any guesses on how early we�ll be up in the morning? Any guesses how much coffee Sally will need? (Nope. Higher.) In this Land of the Lost, I�m the dark-loving Sleestak. WHY does this town insist on opening everything before dawn? Hisssssssssssssssss.

Chiropractor appointment. Still surprisingly helpful.

Dig out camping gear for Daughter. Completely unused camping gear. We�re happy campers, just not experienced ones.

Furiously clean house for evening arrival of Son�s principal for the big evening of babysitting. Scrub bathrooms, do laundry, vacuum, mop, dust, do dishes, make beds, collapse in exhaustion. More coffee.

Afternoon: Pick up kids from school. Take Daughter and buddy to the leader�s farm for camping.

Back home, continue to clean in sheer desperation. More coffee.

Pick up Hubby from work. Go home while Hubby has his chiropractor appointment, and then parks cars in the church parking lot for the high school football game. Starve because we�re going out to eat at 8pm, and to eat now would ruin dinner. Gnaw peckishly on a chair instead. Watch the dogs look fat and tasty, perfect with a dash of garlic and lemon�

Forget cleaning, stuff things under the beds. And in closets. And in the shed.

Feed Son. Picky, picky Son. Watch Son reject meal offered, so that when the principal comes Son is famished and acting like malnourished denizen of a third world nation. Cry.

Evening: Welcome Principal (hereafter known as Victim), and pray he doesn�t look under any beds. Pray also he doesn�t notice nervous tic from gallons of coffee consumption. Pray Son doesn�t say anything we will heartily regret. Pray Son goes easy on him. Principal, er, Victim, is a nice guy.

Go out to eat with Hubby. Fall asleep during meal.

Go home.

Woo hoo.

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Waxing nostalgic. I'll move along tomorrow. It's 12-freakin'-38am and I can. not. fall. asleep.

I bought the new Duran Duran single today. Just like old times. Not the deepest lyrics around, still-80�s-but-we�re-all-grown-up-now instrumentation, and Simon LeBon�s inimitable delivery. Ah, sweet.
You know who else I�ve been hearing a lot lately? ELO. Electric Light Orchestra. Yes, yes, I like them. Really really like them. It seems I hear them only when we�re in stores, however, which gives me multiple opportunities to embarrass my children. You want to completely mortify your kids? Sing along with Jeff Lynne to �Sweet Talkin� Woman� in the aisle at Big Lots. Watch your children wedge themselves under a Christmas display. My brood is scarred for life; they�ll haul me on Springer one day for sure.

Dig this! Dee-T�s 70�s Page Something for the whippersnappers to check out. Today�s little squirts get such relatively banal PC fare as Barn*ey and Dor@ and other Wiggly Things. Hell, no wonder kids today are soft. Those of my generation cut our teeth on some serious LSD inspirations. My world was shaped by
and and
Here is a children�s show. Here is a children�s show on acid. Groove, children, groove.

(Pictures courtesy of and copyrighted by 70slivekidvid Another totally faboo site. What Saturday mornings were made for, in my pre-yard sale days.)

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