Tantalizing Tuesday Tidbits

Looks like I am going to officially be a scout mom. My daughter is joining a Girl Scout Daisy troupe. They meet every other Wednesday night at a local community center. My friends’ little girl, who Sophie loves playing with, is in this troupe. So it should be fun for Sophie. Having two brothers and all male cousins, she needs to be surrounded by something other than stifling testosterone occasionally. I have already emailed the troupe leader all of Sophie’s logistics, including her tunic size. We will be heading to our first meeting next Wednesday with large check in hand. Lord, help us. And be forewarned, dear family and friends: In a year or two, I will likely be peddling cookies. And I don’t want to hear any excuses about “diets” or “watching my figure.” I’ve seen you people put away ungodly amounts of beer and barbecue and enough cheese to permanently clog your colons for life…in one sitting. So no excuses!

As I type this, Ruanita is rummaging through the kids’ bedrooms finding toys to donate to Goodwill. Santa’s visit is quickly approaching and, as usually, Santa outdid himself again this year. We are going to have more toys in this house—toys that my beloved children may play with once or twice and then ignore completely until we try to toss them—than any child needs. It is really quite ridiculous the amount of “stuff” my kids possess. And Santa—stupid decrepit elf that he is—keeps bringing them more. I think it is time for a moratorium on toys. No more toys. My children have spent the last three weeks playing with a cardboard box in the basement. And this past summer, they spent every day outside catching tiny frogs. They don’t need the fancy electronic, talking, peeing, barking, screeching toys they see on commercials during Saturday morning cartoons. They simply need an old rusty bucket for catching frogs, a cardboard box, perhaps some duct tape, a #2 pencil, and a couple of crayons. Maybe a stick or two. A mound of dirt. Santa is getting off cheap next year!

I have had a cold for three weeks now that I cannot seem to shake. Ruanita says I am not taking care of myself. I try to drink water. I try to take my medicine. I try to rest. But come on….this time of year is not exactly conducive to “rest” and self-care.” I try to drink water—to thin the mucous, I am told—but we all that know a 20-ounce hazelnut latte tastes much better. I try to take my medicine, but frankly, in the words of my children, “It’s yucky.” Cough syrup has to be the most foul, noxious, revolting concoction ever created by humankind. Why would anyone in their right mind—with the exception of skid row alcoholics—willingly and purposefully drink the stuff? And Vicks Vaporub? Don’t even get me started. Ruanita is constantly telling me that I should coat my chest in Vicks Vaporub. That would all be well and fine, were it not for the smell of that stuff. And it lingers. And it discolors your clothing. And your sheets and blankets smell like Vicks for days. And if I am already feeling exhausted and under-the-weather, why would I apply something to my body that requires me to then strip my bed and wash all my sheets and blankets? Sounds like a hell of a lot of work. So here I sit…coughing up obscene items from my chest and snotting and drooling like an English bulldog. Yea…I love winter.

And speaking of winter, I live in Minnesota. It is December 13th—MID December. And we have no snow on the ground. This year was the first time since moving to Minnesota that I have not experience a white Thanksgiving. If my Christmas is brown, too, I don’t know what I am going to do. If I move any farther north for my guaranteed white Christmases, I am going to have to convert to Canadianism. Catholicism to Canadianism is a tough transition. And try as I might, I simply can’t eat gravy on my French fries.

Oh, woe is me….