Thanks. Whew.

So how much luck, good fortune, blessedness (whatever you like to think of it as) can I expect. None. That’s how much I expect. Because I think by expecting none hopefully I won’t seem arrogant to whoever decides this stuff, and then I will get me some more.

Anyway, I found out this week that the occasional but very sharp pain in my hip joint that I’ve had on and off for years is actually something. It is early degeneration of my hip joint. AKA osteoarthritis. And while researching it on the internet that evening, and learning that I’m kind of destined for it to progress, and feeling kind of weepy about it, Michael came in and bolstered me up very sweetly. And it made me kind of brace up and realize that at least I wasn’t sitting there searching for information on something life-threatening on the internet. Just lifestyle threatening. And I’ll take that any day.

Then here was this. Sami and I went to Target on Saturday. Yes. Target on a Saturday right before Christmas. Argh. We had to park in the far reaches of the lot. And even out there, it was packed. We did our shopping, pushed the cart to the car. I unloaded my stuff, then unloaded Sami and put her in her car seat, pushed the cart off to the side by another one then hopped in to head for our next stop about 2 miles away. We pull in to my favorite neighborhood specialty meat shop to shop for some fish for dinner. And as I pulled in and went to gather up my purse… OH GOD I didn’t have it! You all know that sick, sick feeling. As I sped back to Target (Sami going, “Mommy fass! Mommy fass!”), and I mean sped, I couldn’t help but run through in my mind the fact that I have probably 40+ different cards (not credit, but just—you know—membership cards, savings cards, and a handful of credit cards too) in there and I would have no idea how to go about beginning to contact the issuers. And of course, I had just gone to the bank and bestowed some actual cash upon myself. A rare circumstance. I’m usually very cashless. But decided sometimes that can be a hassle, so had been very extravagant and took out a hundred bucks in cash.

I knew with the crowds and crowds of people the odds of my cart still being there, let alone with my purse still in it, were slim. The one flicker of hope I held onto was that I had seen Glum Cart Retriever Boy coming out to that area of the lot as we left. I pulled back in, hopped out to see if I could find it on foot to no avail. Hopped back in the car, and headed to the front of the lot, guessing I’d go in and see if by any long shot someone might have turned it in.

And in a gleaming ray of light, there was Glum Cart Retriever Boy pushing a cart filled with some other junk AND MY PURSE. I sputtered and stuttered and pointed at the purse and said, “Mine. Purse mine.” He delivered it unto me.

Oh sweet Jesus, I was grateful.

I’m not doing that anymore.

Also, I think spending the time to photocopy every card in my purse front and back might be a worthwhile expenditure of time. Doncha think?

Here and Now

Awk I’ve been delinquent about getting in here. But since I can’t possibly catch up on everything now, I’m allowing myself just to pick up in the present so I’m not overwhelmed. So there.

Sami's a parrot now. She will try to say anything I ask her to. And she is hilarious doing it. My favorite is when she thinks she has a word down perfectly, and so repeats it very clearly over and over. Like “oppus.” As in, “Mommy work inna oppus?” You know. It’s a room in our house. And she loves to page (and I mean it – she browses through the plethora I receive page by delicate page—thanks MyCokeRewards.com) through mazzagines.

And suddenly, instead of asking “Whassis?” She now waves her hand in an impatient fashion, and demands to know, “Whassis’bout?” About EVERYthing. A stain on my shirt? Whassis’bout. A sack full of groceries? Whassis’bout. A new card I opened during her nap and added to the Christmas card holder? Swear. Two seconds into the room, and she notices it, and needs to know whassis’bout.

She’s a fashionista. She can spend hours trying on her shoes. Her favorites are the sandals from last summer that she outgrew but that I haven’t yet boxed up for Goodwill and instead threw them all into an otherwise empty drawer in her room. Her toes stick out the end about an inch. Divine. And oh. Belts. And for the past two days, she drug out her little one piece swimsuit, and has me help her put it on over her clothes. She was happy wearing it for hours yesterday. So convenient at diaper changing time, too.

She loves to shop. And if I happen to try something on with her in there, she’s so complimentary. “Ohhhh. So cute, Mom.” And of course, she encourages me, “Get tit, Mom? Get tit?”


Today she had a freak little stumble that made her kind of fall into a rocking chair in my oppus. With the dog on top of her. And the chair cross rail had broken off some time ago, leaving a bit of a sharp wooden point, and of course, her head hit that.

Michael was on the phone, and I could hear the long, long intake of breath that indicates a ‘real’ injury, and after the long, long intake we know to anticipate a really hearty scream. I ran with her into the bedroom to try to keep the noise from Michael’s phone call. And I did what I’ve done dozens of times, and that is to hold her to me and rock back and forth, trying to soothe her. Only this time, feeling the wetness that I assumed were her tears, when she finally calmed down and I pulled my hand away, it had blood all over it. I was pretty calm I guess, but went back into Michael, and together we found that she had only a tiny nick on her scalp. But my word! By the time I got a wet cloth and cleaned up her hair, my hands, and her scalp, it looked like I had mopped up a small murder scene. So that’s my lesson in case she gets a worse cut on the head in the future. They bleed a LOT. I want to remember that so I don’t freak out and assume lots of blood indicates lots of injury.