Holy Flying Chicken Chili, Batman!!!

James bounded in the door after his first day of school (he’s hit the big time – he’s in first grade!). Words bubbled out of his mouth faster than Niagra Falls over his amazing day. I grinned from ear to ear listening to him as he unpacked his backpack.

He got to his lunch and shot me a glance – the kind that hoped I would be mad – and said, “I didn’t eat all of my chicken chili.” He pulled out the blue-lidded silver thermos from his lunch bag. “I thought-” he paused to twist the lid and grunted, “I’d try to finish it now.”

“It probably isn’t any good now,” I said.

He shrugged and continued to grunt and twist at the lid. “I’ll at least open it to see.” After a few more moments of wrenching at the lid, he passed the container to me. “Can you do it?”

“Sure.” I nonchalantly gave the lid a twist, figuring anything a six-year-old had a hard time unscrewing would be a cinch for me. I twisted harder. I grabbed a towel and wrenched the lid again, hoping the towel would give me more traction. No matter what I tried the lid refused to budge. “Who screw this thing on, superman?” I asked.

James giggled. “No. I did.” He bulged his little six-year-old muscles. “I’m strong!”

“Yes, indeed you are.” I gave the lid a final attempt before staring at it in contempt. “Nothing doing, it’s not coming off today. Perhaps Dad can get it when he gets home tomorrow night.” I set it on the counter. “It probably wouldn’t have been any good to eat anyway, I’ll give you an apple.”

And with that the container was forgotten. It never occurred to me what might happen if I let white chicken chili (with BEANS) sit in an airtight container and ferment over night….

The alarm jerked me awake at 5:00 this morning and I prodded Dot into wakefulness. Running a little late (her alarm is set for 4:40), she managed to get everything done and my crazy morning began. I ran Dot to seminary, came home and made sure Em was awake. While she got ready for school, I made lunches. Then at 6:30, a little before Em was about ready to go out to catch the bus, I roused the boys and got them loaded into the van. Once Em was on her way, we sped over to the church to fetch Dot and then took her to highschool, returning home with just over an hour to get the boys ready to catch their bus.

We were half way through breakfast, when I ran upstairs for something. I heard a really loud pop and bang, and yelled something about not knocking the chairs over, while I searched my desk for the needed paper. Jacob appeared at my door gasping for breath after charging up the stairs.

“You know the white chicken chili James didn’t eat? It EXPLODED!!” He threw his hands in the air looking both delighted and panicked at the same time. “The lid made a hole in the ceiling – and it smells really bad.” This last statement came out nasally as he pinched his nose.

Feeling a bit wary (of the mess I’d have to clean up), slightly amused, and extremely curious I followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen to survey the damage.

“Holy Flying Chicken Chili, Batman!!” I exclaimed, my jaw dropping.

The smell of fermented beans and sour milk clung to the air. Bits and pieces of chili littered the counter and floor – sometimes nothing more than the bean skin was seen laying forlornly by itself, with the escaped bean smashed a short distance away. The lid had landed, broken, close to the dining room entrance. I gazed up at the ceiling.  A large clump of chili clung to the ceiling, dripping in great oozing drops, with a neat rectangular gash in it’s center from where the side of the lid had slammed into the ceiling. Had it been outside, it probably would have cleared the atmosphere. Clumps and gobs of chilie even slid morosely down the front of the fridge on the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Wow, impressive,” I managed to say before the chuckles began to hit. The boys staring at me in awed wonder – the little ones seemed rather terrified that something else might explode soon. I continued to laugh while I instructed them to fetch some supplies to start the clean up with.

I have a feeling I’ll be finding (and hopefully not smelling) bits and pieces of white chicken chili in random places for a long time to come, lol.

So, lesson of the day… if you have a thermos with chili in it that you can’t get the lid off – stow it in the fridge until the muscle arrives – unless, of course, you want the cool scientific experience. In that case, I’d stick it outside to avoid the mess (of course, with my luck it would indeed clear the atmosphere only to come back as a meteor and wipe out my house – I know, it’s impossible – but imagination is key here).

Water rockets have got nothing on me guys….  😀

 

(Just don’t let me near a pressure cooker…. If I can’t handle a thermos, I shudder to thing what I would do with one of those! lol)

* two updates since writing this post: 1 – when I walked back downstairs to get back to cleaning, I remembered my first thought on observing the mess the first time (after the holy flying chicken chile, Batman) – Dang! I missed it! (as in witnessing the actual event. 2- I was washing the dishes and couldn’t figure out what happened to the rest of the lid – I had only found the cap – the part that stick out and into the thermos to help create the seal was missing entirely. I finally found it… under the dining room table! lol!

It must run in the family

A long time ago, when I was but a wee little lass, my big sister, Heidi, melted one of those plastic cake/jello pans in the oven.

OOPS!

In her defense, she didn’t know it was in there when she turned the oven on. At least, I don’t think she did. Heidi? (She’ll correct me if I’m wrong, believe me! :-D) I don’t remember why it was in there. I just remember copious amounts of baking soda being flung all over the kitchen when it was found.

If there had been Christmas music playing (and something wasn’t on fire) we probably would have started shouting,

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing.”

But, no one did, because we didn’t want to go up in flames. The fire was quickly estinguished and who knows what happened to the rack and the oven. I was too little. I probably scampered out to the barn after all the excitement was over to avoid being roped into the clean-up.

***

So, today is Dot’s birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DOT!!

She decided to make us all eggs on her birthday. She cooked them herself and made orange juice and brought mine to me in bed (because I was REALLY slow waking up this morning – ok, well it was only 6:30 at that point, but still I was half an hour late waking up). I grinned at her, wished her a happy birthday, scarfed my eggs down and went to hang out with the family. The boys were still in bed and the girls were just finishing eating.

We chased Lizard out the door for school and greeted a sleepy-eyed, stumbling Jacob who plopped down at the table. Dot promptly delivered his breakfast. Maybe if I had been paying closer attention I would have noticed where she got his breakfast from, but, I wasn’t.

I decided to be extremely efficient. I was going to get that cake baked right away and run to the store, all before my three elementary kids went to school and Dad took off to work. So, I flipped on the oven to preheat and went happily about mixing cake batter as Dot giggled and peeked around me.

I was just about ready to pour the batter into the pan and fling it in the oven (and feeling very proud of my efficient-ness), when James came downstairs.

“Where’s his breakfast?” Dot asked me.

I was thoroughly confused, staring at the empty frying pan that had obviously cooked eggs this morning. “Ummm. I have no idea.” (I swear, I did not eat the eggs.)  I was on the verge of questioning my sanity when Dot began freaking out.  I quelled her with a look. “I don’t know where the eggs are, Dot. I didn’t eat them. No one ate them. There are no eggs.” I pointed to the pan in emphasis, but her wild gesticulations just became wilder.

She frantically waved her hand in the direction of the oven. “THEY’RE IN THERE!!!!!”

“Oh, CRAP!”

(unfortunately, as much as I really hate to admit it, I did use that word)

I yanked the oven door open and there, partially melted and just beginning to drip onto the bottom of the oven, was a green plastic plate holding James’s eggs. Poor eggs. Poor plate. POOR OVEN!! YIKES!

“Why didn’t any one tell me?” I cry as Dot goes racing upstairs crying (poor Dot) and Paul comes racing downstairs.

He looks at my disaster. “Oh, shoot. Sorry about that. I told her to put them in there. Maybe next time we’ll stick them in the microwave to keep them warm. Might be a better idea.”

“Ya think?” 😛

Anyway, he was able to nimbly clean up the melting plate, nothing was ruined (except the plate… and the eggs – I didn’t think plastic coated eggs would be too good for James’s digestion)- heck! I didn’t even catch anything on fire (take that plastic oven disaster!), Dot was comforted and cheered up and we assured her it wasn’t her fault, and I was still able to get to the store and back before the little people left for school.

Moral of the story?

Don’t put plastic stuff in the oven….

EVER!!!

(oh, and it might not be a bad idea to look and see what’s in there before you turn the thing on.)

Conserving Energy can be Hazardous to your Health

I have always turned lights on as I’ve walked through the house. I suppose it was probably about 30% imagination and 70% klutz factor. My eyes seem to bring shadows to life, but more importantly, my feet seem to find every obstacle in the dark. After I married Paul he always laughed at my light turning on tendancies and began shutting lights off on me (lovingly of course) and I began calling him (lovingly of course too) the Light Nazi.

Well, over the years, I have become quite used to walking around in the dark and have convinced my imagination to leave me alone (actually, I just sing primary songs when my imagination starts to get the better of me).

The other night Paul was at the priesthood session of General Conference and Murdoch was barking in the backyard on his dog run line. He was barking like crazy and driving me mad. So, I decided to go down and let him in. I laid the baby in his cradle/bassinet at the side of my bed and went down the stairs. As I moved through the house there was a little light streaming in through the small front windows beside the door from our front outdoor lamp, so I didn’t feel the need to flip any lights on.

As I moved to the back of the house toward the back door I applauded myself on the fact that even though it was darker I still hadn’t turned on a single light. Wouldn’t Paul be proud? I grabbed the leash and flipped on the outside light. It didn’t turn on, but knowing it was a motion sensing light, it didn’t bother me. I opened the door. I couldn’t even see the dog it was so dark, but I knew the light would come on soon.

Stepping carefully, I made my way down the stairs, all the time hoping the light would turn on soon. All was going well until the world dropped out from under me. Literally. Okay, it wasn’t the world, it was just a step. I had misjudged how many steps there were in the dark and I missed the final stair.

With a startled, “Oh crap! (yes, I know, I need to watch my phrase-ology, but in my defense I was caught by surprise and there were no children around), I found the deck rushing up to meet me. I hit with such a resounding clatter that the dog took off yelping in terror. It quickly turned to a defensive frenzy of barking as my arm did a complete windmill and released the leash, which went sailing past his head.

Because it had just rained, the deck was unusually slippery. My knee met the deck first. The rest of me quickly followed, causing my leg to go shooting backwards along the deck, leaving streaks of brown dirt up down my pants and shins. With my legs shooting out behind me, I put my hands out to catch myself. This was rather pointless as they went skidding off in front of me, leaving me with little other course than to complete the belly flop on the deck.

After telling Murdoch to be quiet (actually I said shut-up – I was not in the best of humor at this point) I listened in satisfaction as the barking came to an immediate halt. I stumbled to my feet and scanned the dark deck in front of me.

Still, leash flying through the air and all, the light on the back porch had failed to come on. I felt around blindly and could find no leash. Finally, as I turned back to scowl at the light that failed, it flared to life bathing the backyard in welcomed light. I spotted the leash a good 3 or more feet off the deck laying in the grass. After fetching the leash, I limped my way to the dog and led him inside.

When Paul got home I looked at him rather crossly. “Conserving energy is hazardous to your health.”

He gave me a puzzled look and I told him of my adventure. He didn’t even try to mask the laugh or hide the smile. “Oh, I always turn the light on inside before taking the dog out.Why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re the light nazi!” I shook my head, starting to laugh. “I was trying to be all cool walking around in the dark like my hubby. Dork.”

So, if you drive by our house in the very late evening and find it blazing with lights – I’m only taking the dog out. 😀 Maybe the higher electric bill will be worth not having higher medical bills.

And the rain (or croissants as the case may be) comes down

It was a dark and dreary day. It really was. It had been raining quite heavily all day long. A trip to Costco was required though, so I had bundled up the boys (the girls were still in school at the time) and drove to the nearest store, about 20 minutes away or so.

There is one thing I am a sucker for at Costco – and that is croissants. I LOVE them. I love to use them for sandwiches, or just eat them plain. This trip was no different than the others, I purchased a package of croissants along with the rest of the groceries.

I got home and, dodging the rain, hurried inside with James in my arms and pulling a reluctant Jacob behind me hollering “I holp! I holp!” I tried to explain to him that things were too heavy and it was raining to hard to help, and though he consented, he was not happy about it.

It was James’s nap time, so I punked him in his crib and hurried back out the door and into the rain to bring the rest of my purchases. In one hand I carried dishwasher detergent, in another I carried a box of frozen hashbrowns. Perched atop the box of hashbrowns was the coveted package of croissants.

I was trying to hurry and I was soaked. I only ever wear flipflops unless I am doing a lot of walking and I didn’t think about the fact that the floor would be wet from my earlier entrance. I hit the damp wood floor in front of the door and my right ankle shot out, wrenching beneath me. I felt the crunch as I pitched forward. The Dishwasher soap bounced across the carpetted part of the floor as the hashbrowns and croissants became airborn. Luckily, the box of hashbrowns landed on the couch beside me, gently bobbing up and down on the plush cushions.

I layed on my stomach in agony as the soft patter of croisants rained around my still form. After a moment of silence I heard a tentative little voice.

“Mommy? You fall mommy?”

“Yes, Jacob. I fell.”

“I holp now?”

“Yes. You can help now.”

He happily gathered up the croissants as I pealed my wounded self off the ground. It is one thing to say you sprained your ankle doing sports or saving a child from a speeding train – but slipping on a puddle of water? Come on! 😀

(By the way – this was a couple months ago – after gimping about for a couple weeks the ankle was better. It didn’t even swell – of course I think my ankles are so used to being wrenched, sprained, and twisted that they have long since given up swelling 😀 heh)

That’s Just Goofy!

I was in highschool when I was dubbed with the nickname of Goofy. Partly due to my love of the silly character, and partly due to my own klutzy goofiness. At one point I found in the newly opened Wal-Mart in the neighboring town a backwards goofy watch. It was love at first sight.

The number ran backwards, the clock ran backwards, it was unique, and different, and, well – Goofy! It was perfect. I saved my hard earned babysitting money and bought one. I wore for all through college, and on my mission, where it became quite the novelty as children poured over this strange watch.

When it broke, my husband tracked down a new one for my birthday off of e-bay. The other day I had removed it to wash dishes and had forgotten to put it back on. Elizabeth came to me a short time later with a very puzzled look on her face.

“Mom,” she begins. “There’s something wrong with you watch. I think it’s broken.”

I immediately feel upset with myself that I had forgotten to put it back on. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask as she brings it to me.

“Well, it looks like it’s running counter-clockwise!”

I begin laughing immediately and remember the fun times I had as children on my mission made the same surprising discovery. As I strap it safely onto my wrist, I sit Elizabeth onto my lap (she’s getting so big – I don’t think that will be lasting much longer) and begin to explain to her the mechanics of a backwards goofy watch.

I Should Have Been a Pole Vaulter

Maybe I was in another life. hah! So, this is what happened. A few weeks ago the kids had a school talent show. Dorothy decided she was singing in it and Liz wanted to play the piano. It isn’t a really well organized thing and kids run around willy-nilly and you can hardly anything, but hey, its fun.

It is also a silent auction, so at one point I was walking back towards my family, seated on the floor, after having browsed past the tables showcasing the baskets and items up for auction. Paul had both boys on his lap, and Dorothy and her friend were sitting a little in front of him.

I could tell my marvelous husband was struggling with both boys, so I offered to take the baby – walking up between him and the two girls. He hands me James.

You know how when someone hands you something rather large and you suddenly feel like you are two close to that person and you take an unconcious step backwards? Well, that’s how I felt and what I did.

I realized, with horror, that I was standing on my Daughter’s hand – all my weight standing. In order to get off her hand I need to move my right leg so it was more underneath me. As my leg moved back it met an obstacle – Dot’s friend. Before I knew it I was falling backwards – baby in arms, camera around neck.

The first thought that flashed through my mind was “I can’t fall on her” – she has cancer it would kill her – or just break every bone in her body – since they are weaker because of the chemo and treatments and stuff.

So I jumped. I twisted my body to the side, shielded the baby and held him in front of me and jumped backwards – up over the little seated girl. Yup, I am that good. I landed flat on my back – well more on the left side of my back as I had the baby in my right arm and was holding him up higher so he wouldn’t hit the floor. The camera, still around my neck, crashed on the floor and bounced.

I lay there half laughing, thinking, “This only happens to me.” and “Thank goodness most everyone else is too engrossed in the talent show to notice what just happened.”

The baby was fine – he wanted to go for another fun ride, in fact. Camera was fine *whew*, and the little girl – we hoped was fine. I cleared her mostly – but caught her shoulder. The grandparents were panicked about me (I did kinda hit my head when I landed) and I insisted I was fine. (Though the next couple days were excruciatingly sore ones)

Turns out the little girl was fine except for a broken shoulder. I felt horrible, the parents and grandparents assured me it wasn’t my fault and they were amazed at my ability to high jump backwards. The awesome news is that the should is healing fine without surgery or pins or anything – such a relief. 😀

I have to say though, I think this is a sport I should leave to the professionals – they have those cushy little cushions to land on!

Doing What I Do Best

A faint gray light filtered into the bedroom and I groaned as the alarm sounded. Morning had come too quickly and I could hear the girls moving about in their room, beginning to wake and get ready for school.  I staggered to the bathroom and stuck my eyeballs in, then searched for my walking pants.  I spotted them tossed on a chair in the bedroom.  I quietly slipped back into the dark room, being careful not to wake James who was still fast asleep in his crib. (Because we are in my parents house and have two households worth of stuff crammed in there, James’ crib is in our bedroom).  I tugged my walking pants on and exited the room into the brightly lit hall, greeting four smiling faces before dissapearing into the kitchen to ready breakfast.

The morning went fairly smoothly, as far as mornings with 5 young children go, with James waking and eating not too long before it was time to leave.  I walk the kids to school in the morning and then continue on my own walk, going anywhere from 2 to 5 miles depending on time.  This morning was no different as I loaded Jacob and James into the bike cart that doubles as a stroller.  (Their combined wait is close to 60 pounds).  We walked down the street and said good morning to the crossing guard as we made our way to school.  On our way there, we ran into a walking friend I had made just a few weeks ago when school started. She was walking with her husband (usually she is by herself) with their first grader in tow, pushing the baby in their stroller.

We stopped to chat a moment – I had gone to highschool with both of them, and actually knew and remembered her husband.   Mid-conversation she leans toward me and says, “I want you know I do this all the time, but I think I should tell you – you’re pants are on inside out.”

I looked down and sure enough – no pink stripes were running up the side of my black exercise pants. They were indeed, inside out.  Fighting the urge to run home and hide I made a lauhging comment of the dangers of getting dressed in the dark.  I knew I would have no opportunity to change my pants rightside out if I wanted to get my walk in, so, with head high I marched to the school, deposited my children, and headed off (to the grocery store – as that was the planned walk) with my pants inside out. (At least they were black, and hopefully not Too noticable).

My friend and her husband were heading the same way, and as they didn’t seem too embarrassed to be seen with a women who couldn’t dress herself right, I walked with them.  All was going well until we got to the hill.

It is a big hill that goes under a railroad trestle.  I have to lean my body and the stroller back so it doesn’t get away from me – especially with all that weight in there from the boys. At this point I happened to be in the lead and was trying my hardest not to be pulled into a full out run as the stroller struggled to get away from me.

Suddenly my left ankle gave out beneath me and I found myself collapsing to the ground. I instantly clutched tighter to the stroller, desperate not to let go of it and send my children sailing down the hill into a ditch, or even worse – a car.  Stroller half dragging me, my knee dug into the pavement as my friend swerved her stroller to avoid running me down.   I jolt from behind let me know that her husband had just tripped over my back – or was he lunging to catch the stroller in case I let go? Finally my body stopped, sprawled on the ground, with one hand still clinging to the stroller.

“I’ve got it, you can let go now.”

I thanked him and got to my feet. Boy did my ankle hurt – but no way in heaven was I going to let on.  “I’m sorry you got hurt,” she says.

“Ahh – the only thing really hurt is my pride.” And I laugh it off – because, after all – even though I felt a twinge of embarrassment, it really was very funny.

“So, you’re having one of THOSE days,” she says laughing.

Yes, indeed I was.  I managed to walk all the way to the grocery store and home again – but my ankle has been bugging me since, so my husband commanded me to get a brace for it.  I figure I sprained it. 

Oh, and the day continued. Yup. That evening when I was making tacos for dinner, I reached into the cupboard to add more taco seasoning to the hamburger. Only, the container I grabbed wasn’t taco seasoning. It was CINNAMON. Yup. Cinnamon.  All over my taco meat and I wasn’t about to throw it out. So I did what every other Goofy prone mom would do. I added more cilantro and taco seasoning on top of it, and hoped it would taste ok.

Surprisingly enough, it did. And the kids loved it. So, if you ever want to try something a little different, toss a little cinnamon in your taco meat – you might be surprised at how good it really is.

That was my Friday – thankfully, the rest of the weekend wasn’t nearly so thrilling.

At Least the Swelling went Down By My Birthday

We had set the small dome tent up in the back yard for the kids to sleep in while my brother and sister-in-law were here.  The kids had enjoyed some fun nights out there during the week, but Paul and I decided on Thursday it was time to take the tent down.  Jacob had torn a small hole in the netting – which I am going to attempt to patch.  I figured I would be the good helpful wife and approached the tent.

I grasped one of the tent poles and pulled it out from it’s loop.  Quicker than I could blink the pole slipped from my hand and whisked through the air – a deadly arc slicing the air. As it lept toward the sky it caught my upper lip and flipped it up so fast, I thought it was going to be sitting there vibrating back and forth for the entire evening. My lipped swelled up bigger than a cherry, bruised, and bled a little. 

Once Paul knew I was allright, he was trying his hardest not to bust up laughing – until I finally said, “It’s okay dear, you can laugh – it was pretty funny. But, if the swelling doesn’t go down by Saturday you are not taking a photos of me & I am not going anywhere.  Well – Friday the swelling was way down, and today it was nearly gone – it turned pretty colors, but at least it didn’t look like I had some sort of abnormal growth on my lip.

So, I can add another item to the “Be careful or you might poke your eye out” list.

So, the birthday was a lot of fun – the funniest gift (my present from James, of course):

The Bestest B-day present: My beloved backwards goofy watch was loosing time – my faithful husband managed to track me down a new one – a near impossible feat. 🙂

Blame it on the Soy Sauce … or … Soy Sauce is Evil

The second and fourth Wednesday of every month finds me hosting a writing group in my home. There are anywhere from 2 to 4 ladies besides myself who attend. Usually I try to make sure my house looks semi-decent, ie: avoid the bomb just went off look. This Wednesday found my house looking just the opposite. All the effort I put into getting the house straightened yesterday had evaporated into a fine mist, leaving not even the slightest trace behind.

The morning was packed, rushed and busy with little time for feeding the baby, let alone cleaning anything. Upon picking up Emily from kindergarten I plead with her to be my super-duper helper, and she happily agreed.

I should have known based on the powers of destructiveness in the morning – what small things I did get done were immediately undone – that success in presenting a clean home was not meant to be. I was chatting with one of the writing group members on the phone when Emily walked up to me in near tears.

She held up the glass syrup container that we keep soy sauce in. “This spilled. It was an accident.”

I told her that was find and came to clean up the mess. It hadn’t just spilled – it had been accidently knocked out of the fridge. There was a massive puddle of soy sauce that Jacob was dropping napkins in in an effort to “Holp.” (There is nothing cuter than to here his little three-year-old self say, “I holp you, Mom! I holp you!”) The napkins would quickly turn black and drip their way across the floor as Jacob carried them to the garbage can on the other side of the room. Obviously this was not working.

I quickly grabbed a towell and mopped up the soy sauce mess. Then I snagged the mop and zipped it around. Emily was trying to make peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches, and I was try to clean things up when I happened upon a phone that needed to be charged. I walked into the kitchen – momentarily forgetting that the floor was wet from mopping because of the blasted soy sauce.

I was not walking slowly, nor carefully. I was on a mission! I hit that wet floor and I knew in an instant I was in trouble as my feet did this crazy side step/ slide move that would have impressed the best dancers and I found myself momentarily suspended in air.

I felt like a cartoon. It seemed to me that I hovered in the air above the floor – looked down and thought “This is going to hurt,” just before slamming into the kitchen floor on both knees – my arm coming down on the top of an open cupboard. I think a nice sized crater could have been made by those knees – I hit that hard.

Emily and Jacob looked on with awe as I tried to gingerly move off my knees. The minute I eased off the knees the pain sensors hit my brain and with a sharp intake of breath I uttered, “Yep. That hurt.” And promptly laid down on my side wishing the pain away.

“Are you ok?” an anxious Emmy asked.

“Mommy die, Emmy,” Jacob answered in hushed tones.

At that response I couldn’t help a hearty chuckle. (we frequently have death scenes in our house – he didn’t think I was REALLY dead) “I’m not dead Jacob.”

“I think we should jump on her,” says Emily. (we also have frequent jump on and wrestle sessions in our house when people are dying on the floor)

That comment got me moving – pain or not – and lauging too. Maybe I shouldn’t have put the Goofy display up on the piano this month. That’s two goofy momments in less than a week. Personally though, I blame it on the Soy Sauce.

Evil, evil soy sauce.

Waking Up Hubby

People have always enjoyed waking me up in the most interesting ways; In college, Paul’s favorite method of waking me while I slept in the “fishbowl” of the music building was to drip water on me from the balcony above. Well, Sunday it was my turn for revenge.

We started out the afternoon after church and lunch by having the kids do a quiet time, the two older ones being asked to read quietly, and the younger ones sent to play in their rooms for a bit. Paul and I relaxed in the family room, each with out computer – he on the couch, and me in the recliner. It wasn’t long before the peaceful sawing of his snores filled the room. I continued to fool around on facebook and other places while he slept, until I decided it was time to make dinner. I closed my laptop and went to set it on the little table between the chair and the couch.

There was a large blue cup on that table. A large blue cup on the edge of that table. The edge towards the couch. Did I say that it was perched precariously on the edge of that table? I set the computer down and barely touched the cup. That slight little nudge sent that large blue cup right over the edge. I thought it was empty.

But the way my husband jumped and the subsequent splash informed me that it was not. The mes it made informed me that it was still quite full. He dumped his computer none to reverently on the floor and yanked out the cord – thankfully none got on the computer. As he stood his arm was litterally dripping – plip, plip, plip, as he stood there with semi groggy and confused look.

“Sorry.?.” I offered with a sheepish grin. “I just thought it was, uh, time for you to wake up. Ya, that’s it. You know usually you have such a hard time waking, I thought I’d do the job throroughly this time.”

By the time I finished my longwinded explanation we were both chortling hartily.

Did I mention that the cup was full of juice?

Yeah, it was.