Well, it’s good to have gas


I ran out of gas tonight. Conveniently enough, I was near USF with an unnamed male to whom I am married and who was driving his own vehicle. And we conveniently pulled into a turn lane and called our baby sitter, who happened to be my dad. Ten minutes later my dad showed up in a convertible with my 9-yr-old son, who was hopping all over the place, giddy as snake in a rat museum. Oh, the adventure of bringing gas to your mom on a Friday evening. But it wasn’t gas. It was a gas and oil mixture, made for a lawnmower that hasn’t chewed a blade of grass in almost a year now. So, it was back to the gas station they went.

Soon enough, with some high octane imported from some far away scary country, we were on our merry way to Target again. After filling up our tank, the unnamed male got in the car and said, “Well, it’s good to have gas.”

“Depends on the context, I guess,” said I.


I know. That was dumb.

Pinpricks of Randomness

Last night began a new phase in my life that I feel certain will induce a rapid slide toward my own mental illness. I found SnuggleMonkey standing by my bed in the darkness at 2:17 a.m. Yikes. There are a lot of things that cause my bones to quake from the chill of fear, but SnuggleDoofus wandering the house in the middle of the night while the rest of the house is sleeping is just a hair below Toothless Cat Burglar. You should meet her. You have no idea the damage she can do. All I can say is that I returned her to her bed and tried to fill her head with 105 reasons to never do that again. It won’t work. The mental illness is coming.

Every now and then I stumble upon a note from Mamasboy that makes me smile. A recent one that came home from church was:

I am very funny. I like jets and trains alot. I don’t like Superman.

Who knew?

I love Scholastic Book Order forms. I could read them and order from them from now until I am 94. And then at 94, I could pay $100,000 to a surrogate mother to have a brand new baby with my certifiable 67-yr-old (9th!!) husband. If I am Zsa-Zsa Gabor. Yeah, they really are. He says he’s retired. If she passes beforeĀ  him, he’ll raise the baby. And unless he dies this afternoon, I think it’s safe to bet she’ll pass before him.

I don’t know if anyone was as savvy as Miranda the Machine in my Easter Photo Contest Winner post. She noticed that you could actually see the creepy person peeking out through the Easter Bunny costume. Wish IĀ  had noticed that. That sight was almost as frightening as Zsa-Zsa Gabor becoming a new mommy at 94 or finding ScaryPants by my bed in the dark of night. Almost, but not quite.