My love affair with pizza cutters (and all things pizza) has been passed down to my youngest offspring. He was talking off the very ears of the repair man come to fix our sink this morning.
This morning at 7:48 a.m. Isn't there a law against that kind of punctuality? When repair men say I'll be there at 8 a.m. on Tuesday, don't they really mean, I'll be there at 6 p.m. next Groundhog's Day? What's up with this wonkiness?
Anyway, Moose was precariously perched above Repair Man's head, nestled in the sink, chattering nonstop about Darth Vader, Strawberry Shortcake gum, the dentist, squishy-squashies, muscle tone, and what he wants for Christmas 2012: a pizza cutter of his very own. What a nut. I can't imagine where he gets it.
My plant shelves are still barren. Like a barren desert wasteland. Sometimes a tumbleweed tumbles by. Or a camel. It's a cross between a desert and a ghost town, that's why, now stop interrupting! Anyway, that's all the action my plant shelf sees. I tried to find some of those cool empty picture frames (even though my husband tells me they look creepy. I told him HE looks creepy. I'm mature like that) but no one seems to sell any. I advertised on craigslist but the only one to reply wanted twenty dollars. What am I, made of money? I think I'll try the particular Goodwill that sold me the painting of the four legged ballerina...they should have some appallingly bad art that I could buy simply for the frames.
Do you ever get the feeling that I actually have nothing to blog about?
So do I.
Do you ever get the feeling that I blog because Facebook has a status update word limit?
Pshaw. Pshaw, I tell you!
Do you ever get the feeling that I am blogging to avoid homeschooling my children?
I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing.
I refuse to homeschool EVER AGAIN until someone buys me a decent pencil sharpener. I'm not kidding. I quit. I could wake up at five every morning and sharpen eighteen hundred pencils and they would still mysteriously disappear or break by mid morning when someone desperately needs one, which leaves the minions doing their math completely wrong and in a permanent marker and leaves their mother writing a rent check with the busted tip of half a crayon.
What? You've never written a check with a crayon?
Speaking of homeschooling, Pizza Cutter Boy is teaching himself to read, in spite of me yelling, Knock it off! I don't appreciate this kind of early learning. Humph. I've done the reading and the research! I am all for letting my son get there when he's ready...not forcing...not starting formal school until he's eight...or eighteen. He's a boy! A squirmy, silly, short attention spanned, BOY! He's not ready to "do school!" I'm not ready for it; I have a Kid In My Classroom Limit and it's TWO. He can't start school until his big sister graduates. Holy rusted metal, Batman, I am not teaching you to read and that's final! Why don't my kids ever listen to me?
I guess I could sharpen pencils with all my pizza cutters.
(she admits, grudgingly).