Monday, June 29, 2009

They Have Secrets

When I passed by the boys' room earlier, they jumped out at me.

Elder son: If you hear us talking about a QUILT, don't listen, OK?
Younger son: Because it's a supwise!
Elder son: You weren't spying on us talking about a quilt?
Me: No, no. I know nothing.
Elder son: You don't know nothing, OK? If you hear the word "quilt," you don't listen. Because you are NOT supposed to know that we are making a quilt.
Younger son: Because it's a big SUPWISE.
Elder son: So get out and don't come spying around!

[The door is shut rudely. Then a head pokes out again.]

Elder. Mommy-did-you-hear-me! You know nothing about a quilt!
Me: I never heard about a quilt! I don't know anything about a quilt!
Elder son: About a what?
Me: A quilt.
Elder son: Aha! You WERE listening to us. Get out!

[The door is shut, more firmly this time. I slink away.]

Friday, June 26, 2009

My Outie Becomes an Innie

If you are ever to have surgery and need to change the dressing, I would advise you not to look at the wound. Ye gads! All my poor stummick needed was another ghastly scar, to complement the hideous "mauled by a wild lion" look with which birthin' babies leaves some unfortunate women. I had this little bitty hernia that was growing bigger by the year and threatening to turn my tummy button into an "outie." I fear the incident happened during this life-changing event. I wish I could say it was cute, but it wasn't. There's nothing that will ruin a nice new shirt like a poky outie shimmering through the fabric.

It's all horribly unfair. I used to have a very nice tummy. I wore bikinis, even. If I wore a bikini now, it would have to be one of those high-waisted ones that goes all the way to your neck and contains a wonder bra. I have noticed that all the one-piece bathing suits for sale are horribly boring and mono-colored, while the bikinis for sale are always in bright, fetching patterns and look adorable on the models.

I certainly cannot tell if the outie is even gone, due to the black and blueness of the region and the grotesque swelling. I have a cute little band-aid over the area that I think would look fine were it in a paisley or geometric print.

Right after having the surgery, I relaxed on the porch while reading Assegai, by Wilbur Smith. I opened to the chapter when someone gets gored through the tummy by an irate African buffalo. Ouch! Wilbur Smith is an incredibly prolific author who writes all about Africa, and his books invariably feature big game, wars, angry elephants, guns, strong drink, and scenes of frightful yet poetic violence. I read my first Wilbur Smith as a tween on the island of Crete--stole it from my dad when he was done. It was called Men of Men. I was hooked.

Yet Smith is rather difficult to read when he writes of big-game hunters being gored through the tummy and tossed into the air. I seem to have a knack for this sort of thing; soon after giving birth I read this.

Back to my vanity, and enough of literary ramblings! I used to think that a tummy tuck would be a nice resolution to the horrors bequeathed by childbirth, but no more. It sounds like no fun at all. Besides, if you plan to hunt big game, you might as well accept the fact that you are going to wind up with a few scars. When I look at my three boys, I wouldn't trade one of them for the greyhound-like stomach I used to have. (Sssh. It WAS greyhound-like!) I wouldn't trade a hair from their heads.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Scent of Fear

I have to go in for surgery tomorrow to fix two little bitty hernias and I'm sure I shall die during the surgery. There! I've said it! I recently heard about someone who died during surgery for something minor like this and of course I will suffer the same fate. I've really been panicking all day because if I had really had one day to live I wouldn't spend it:
1. ruminating about death
2. cleaning out the front hall coat closet
3. sending a few work emails
4. walking around aimlessly biting at my lower lip

I tried to figure out the source of my distress and then I hit upon it! It was surely the arrival of a bunny-repelling product from Critter Repellant. That, and the presence of a plastic horned owl with glittering, orange eyes perched just outside my kitchen. The owl must be filled with rocks to prevent it from tipping over in a light wind, but it is fearsome indeed. I sometimes see it in my dreams, descending with claws outstretched.

This morning, the Shake-Away (aka Shake Away Your Composure) product arrived via a visibly-disturbed UPS man and was unveiled within my home. It stank of Fear.

The product is basically made up of the urine of very bad and feral animals who wish to bite bunnies. Upon smelling it, I became alarmed and ran about the house in mad, wild-eyed panic. The Scent of Fear is supposed to hit these creatures where they live and scare the living bejeezus out of them:


We have all these animals on our property! Well, not any more. I would suggest that they are ruminating in their little dens right now, wondering why they never wrote that novel nor pursued their dream career. They are lousy with FEAR!

Honestly, I just wanted to save my punkins. Now I have the Scent of Fear in my backyard! Some have suggested that the Scent of Fear is really Paco Rabanne cologne. I had once thought it to be the Stuffed Scrod at the work cafeteria.

Obviously, I won't die during surgery tomorrow because this post would be a really stupid and lame epitaph to an otherwise dazzling career.