Yah-Yah

Puck’s first issue of the day – smashing his piggy bank.
“Where’s Daddy’s hammer, Mama?”
It’s plastic.
Upon inquiring why, exactly, he wanted to remove the contents of the red pig, he explained it this way…
“You remember when I dumped out half a gallon of Grandma’s soap? I need to buy her some new soap.”
Oh, right…
Following breakfast, I heard a clatter of sparse change rattle on the kitchen linoleum.
“Stop that, Money!” Puck declared boldly. “Or else I will send you out of this house! Stop that! I don’t like you one bit, President!”

So Rose was pretty excited. Today was the day she discovered that – for the second time in her career – she would receive an iPhone from work. See, folks. Rose is just one of those “lucky ducks”, as people like to call them. At 18, she landed a career in IT Helpdesk, self-taught, with iPhone. Just after 19, she bought her first car – a brand new one. Also at 19, she landed her second job in IT, after the demise of the original company. Tacked on a Bachelors degree right before her 20th birthday, shortly after-which she began grad studies in archaeology through a university in London. In this same twelve-month she became IT Helpdesk manager for a branch of one of Boeing’s companies. At 21 she bought a new, new car and moved into a beautiful 1920’s apartment in the city with two cats. And now she has an iPhone 4S. I mean, seriously, is this kid nuts or what?

We expected thunderstorms at two.
But you know how forecasting goes in St. Louis. It’s just never quite… predictable.

In other news, I think the travel bug left me sometime last fall. I guess I’ve got it out of my system at least for now. Good thing, too, because I won’t have a choice come three years from now. I think I’ll take a raincheck on international passage for awhile.

Before bed, Puck asked where the “bottom of space” was again. “I think God is at the top,” he mused aloud.

Thought of the Day

I have an absolutely intolerable sense of anti-smell. It’s not exactly that I can’t smell anything at all. Anything completely putrid I can manage to whiff. So if your garbage disposal backs up or you’re wearing four times the amount of cologne legally acceptable… yes, then my poor old nose can do its job. But for years, my general sense has been so subtle, I just don’t get a huge appetite for food, because I can’t taste so great.
Maybe it had something to do with that trampoline accident twelve years ago…
Anyway.
I’ve been accused of having a deplorable palette. I’m sure I concur. I do have the sense to stay away from some foods though. Take Jell-O for instance. Seriously, folks? Cattle skeletons, no thank you.
There are more.
Pickles? Coconut? Broccoli?
Gag.
Take onions, for example.
I mean… why?
Not only do they smell like soured rubbing alcohol — if you don’t concur, blame it on my whacky face-mountain — but they also convince people that you’re actually crying in the most inconvenient situations…
But I can appease.
I can swallow red pepper-laced sandwiches, or carrots tossed in a soup. I can even handle mushrooms under the right circumstances. But really, when is a circumstance ever right for a mushroom…
Seems to me I have an aversion to those sneaky little substances we like to call vegetables.
And don’t I know it.
Ever since I was six years old, strapped down to the kitchen table bench during a night-thunderstorm, until I swallowed the last of my broccoli-mangled biscuit hash.
Stars, it was disgusting.
According to the mental archives of my mom, I once loved peas. Popped them like tiny delicious green cakes — which I probably thought they actually were at the time. O, the ignorance of infants.
One day, however, I surprised myself.
I actually wanted a salad.
Yes, wanted. Not bribed, hallucinated, or blackmailed. I actually wanted an honest-to-goodness collection of Edenry.
In a bowl.
In my hands.
And it was… ok. Ok…
[No, I was not pregnant at the time.]