Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Distressing Tales of Domesticity!
In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t posted anything about my scary experiences—one reason is that I don’t believe in all that crap, another is that I posted my few little brushes with creepy stuff LAST year at this time, and third is that real life is so much more gruesome and frightening.
Came home last and Tiny Girl was in her sickness-induced ill humor—“She says she lost the backs to her earrings.” ::sigh:: Those oh-so-wanted pierced earlobes—do not say ‘I told you so’, do not say ‘I told you so’, do not say ‘I told you so’.
“Come ‘ere, Squirt, let me see.”
She shoved her bottom lip out and crossed her arms and gave me the “Make me, sucker,” look, so I gently prodded and poked her until she was somewhat giggly, and then turned her ear around. No earring backs in site, and these were her NEW earrings to replace the starter ones. Little gold dolphins with a rhinestone chip that supposed to be a ball…hey, wait. “Hey, wait! Come here.”
Eww. Ick. Gasp.
No wonder she has been so touchy about taking her shirt on and off when getting her clothes together. Those backs WERE still there, jammed down so tight into the skin of her ear that they were nearly under it.
[insert sound of jarring piano chord]
Ick, again. And she was quickly in no mood for me to mess with her. “Whaaaaaaaa,” she said. And I still had to get the other two soccer players up to the park. I looked at Mama—“We’ll have to dig those out tonight when I get home.”
Got the other two going on putting on shin guards and cleats, and figured in the intervening minutes I would take the pumpkin which I had carved last Saturday (one of the many details which I left out of my usual weekend dissertation) and get it ready for the candle. Gotta carve a little hole in the bottom for one, you know.
Picked it up from its spot on the kitchen floor, placed it on the top of the stove, took off the lid and was presented with the second most sickening sight of the afternoon.
A lovely gray and black mane filling the inside of the pumpkin—it looked like Don King’s hair, except growing in rather than up. Eww. I got a paper towel and kind of halfway patted it all down against the inside of the grotesque gourd, because I figured it would be an even bigger mess to try to clean it out. Carved a little divot for the candle and traipsed outside with it and unceremoniously plopped it in the terra cotta pot outside the door. Ick.
Off to the soccer park, where I reread my Old Car Trader, then back home to my loving, screaming little child with earclampitus. Sat the other two down to finish their supper, then followed Tiny Girl and Mom upstairs to see what we could do. Reba had already doused them with peroxide and tried to get them loose, with no luck.
Not that luck has anything to do with it. It simply requires physical will. I wedged Cat between my gut and the bathroom vanity and managed with great effort (and high-pitched wailing ululation that would impress a mob of angry Arabic women) got the back off the right ear. More peroxide, sniffles, and then, Round II.
The left ear was much more problematic. The back of the earring was WAY down there, and after the first one, Catherine was in NO mood to be still and cooperate. I tried, then Reba tried, then Catherine ran around whooping like Curly Howard, except without the entertainment value.
Every move toward her ear was greeted with her pushing away all those grabby hands. Not having a straitjacket handy, but a keen knowledge of professional wrestling, I wound up pinioning her arms behind her and holding her head, while Reba dug the offending scrap of metal out. Good thing that we aren’t on one of those TV reality shows—to an untrained viewer, it probably looked like we were killing her.
I know it sure sounded like it. (Casa de Possum, where unearthly screams aren’t just for Halloween!)
Anyway, she was finally freed from the grip of ear vanity. “No more, girls. NO more. Not another earring until…well, just never.” She sniffled and snubbed for a bit, and Reba cleaned all the ookie gookie ick off of her lobes with yet more Q-tips, each of which Catherine inspected closely and pronounced as, “eww, gwoss!”
So see, I have neither the time nor the energy for all that “other side” garbage—I have crusty ear lobes to tend to. (And to top it off, Reba took her to the doctor today and found out she has ANOTHER ear infection. Not from the earrings, though. Just one of those horrible congestion things that makes Cat both irritable and hard of hearing.)
AND, then there’s our festivities of the evening—I have no idea what the kids are going as this year. I got the big box of costumes down and it’s sitting in the middle of the floor of the kitchen, so I guess I’ll be surprised when I get home. I just hope I can stand it!
And we have another couple soccer games tomorrow, and I have STILL got to put out those pansies, and sometime in the next few days, my painter guy is going to get going on the outside.
See you all Monday—have a good weekend and don’t eat too many Butterfingers!!
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