So here it was, Saturday already. With the good feelings of Christmas behind me, the extent of my mouth pain began to strike me down. Saturday night I couldn't eat or sleep and the Tylenol with codeine wasn't holding me. I woke up Sunday morning in a fog with a swollen and immobile jaw, but could do nothing about it because I had to work that night and it wouldn't be prudent to head to the hospital for a night shift with narcotics in my system. Strangely, by night fall at the hospital last night I began to feel a wee bit better.
As I drove home from baby-catching this morning, wide open freeways ahead of me, I started to feel pretty darn positive. I could probably get rid of this tooth problem without any interventions, for sure.
Have I ever told you how Lars used to want to be a dentist? He loved teeth back when we were little guys, back when we both had a great metabolism and with great abandon could eat the gourmet French fries at the deli I toiled away at in my high school years. Well it is true, Lars had big dental dreams ahead of him. We'd put our heads together late at night, while our other teenage counterparts were making out, and plan our future of me making it big in Hollywood while he attended UCLA dental school. It was a pretty sweet gig we had going. Ah me. Anyway, Lars interned with a dentist when he was in high school and he actually learned quite a bit.
Funny how that dental internship learned him real good how to deal with his crazy wife.
When I got home, I was ready to tell it on the mountain that my teeth done got saved. I mean, not a stretch, after all it is the season for miracles. And just who, who, who, who are you to tell me that one of those tiny little miracles couldna crawled up into my teeth and laid some baby miracle eggs, huh?
Mighta been the lack of sleep. Mighta been denial. Call it what you will. Lars'll not call it anything, instead, he'll call every endodontist on our MetLife plan to get me an ASAP consultation. Which he did. For someone who refuses to floss his teeth, he sure knows a lot about teeth.
And so, with enormous boobies (from not having nursed all night and the pump en route to DC back to my expecting and imminent SIL), I have yet again found myself in an awkward situation while I try to explain to toothy professionals why I (a well-insured, employed, middle-class white woman with four children to model good behavior for) have not been to the dentist since my Ann Arbor days. Yes, Ann Arbor dentists are better. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist knows about my stainless steel medical equipment phobia. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist always readily admitted that my teeth were better than Lars' because I flossed. And still, it is no excuse.
So basically what happened is that my poor bones and ovaries were exposed to 10-kabillion units of radiation for the x-rays taken as proof for the insurance company that this was indeed a case of emergency mouth death. Then, my mouth was propped open with a propper upper and then, OMG, came the stainless steel syringe with a ginormous needle which was used not less then 7-times to (per the endodontist) "numb things up, make the pain go away." Okay, whatever crazy person. For the next 2-hours that crazy sadist lady took circular saws to my head and cut holes in my skull, all the while my mouth was being rammed open at 180-degrees by that very unpleasant propper opener. My funny husband, he's so funny (I'm laughing), thought to pack along my iPod for me -- as if listening to Bob Marley and Green Day was gonna make the whole procedure a bit easier. Though I dutifully listened, little could be done to address the rising panic that was festering just under my ribs. At the end of it all, the professionals told me that I was a wonderful patient and they really didn't see how I had a phobia because I was "just so calm." I think I probably just blacked out.
Well the deed is done. I've gotta imagine that it's some sort of love, or something, that inspires a man to schedule an emergency root canal for his wife. Makes me wonder, with the recent observance of our 10th wedding anniversary last week-ish, what kind of appointments will herald our 20th anniversary? Gotta be love . . . (this is me signing out as I drift off into the codeined mystic).
Monday, December 28, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Panama, Erie, Root: One of These Things is Not Like the Other
Twas two days before Christmas, when hour after hour
Kelly did moan and groan with teeth that felt sour
It was quite difficult to sort it all out while working at . . . work
But man! Holy cow! It hurt even to smirk!
The evening came, and to my home I did rush
But the traffic it certainly proved to be too much.
Too late to call a professional asking for an appointment at least
So instead of relief, there was a dinner party and Christmas feast
Alack and alas, dinner I could not tolerate
My Santa Fe Salad just sat on my plate
With grimace and agony, I grabbed at my left jaw
And ordered a drink from the first waitress I saw
Home again, home again, jiggity jog
But thanks to Irish Rootbeer I was in a fog
By the next morn, much throbbing ensued
And to my dental benefits my eyes did perused
I called all the dentists on my in-network plan
I would go to the dentist (thanks to insurance Mr Obama Yes I Can!)
But as it was nearly Christmas all my calls were ignored
As it turns out, even Muslims and Jews could not be implored
Not a phone call answered and the pain getting worse
I was beginning to think it was some kind of curse
"What should I do?" I cried out in distress
As the moments ticked by, I became more of a mess.
With guilt in my heart, to the kids dentist I texted
And it my brief note, the panic she detected
"I'll look in your mouth, we'll give it a whirl.
But I'm at the movies, with Arianna, my girl.
After the credits, at my office around two.
I will try to help and see what I can do."
And so in that pediatric dentistry chair
I lay in discomfort, nearly pulling out my hair.
Tap-tap here, and a whip-whap there
A dental exam and an x-ray to spare
My worst fears were confirmed by Dr Houri that day
An infection needing root canal and probably decay
My head hanging low and just filled with shame
Poor attention to my teeth, I am to blame!
Can I help it if I 'Mrs Natural Childbirth'
Am afraid of the dentist for all that it's worth?
I'm afraid of the poking, the prodding, the anti-fun
And so for two years the check-ups weren't done
And now here I am, on Christmas indeed
With antibiotics, pain killers and fears not relieved
I'll be a big girl, on Monday you'll see
I'll make my appointment for endodontistry
The End
Kelly did moan and groan with teeth that felt sour
It was quite difficult to sort it all out while working at . . . work
But man! Holy cow! It hurt even to smirk!
The evening came, and to my home I did rush
But the traffic it certainly proved to be too much.
Too late to call a professional asking for an appointment at least
So instead of relief, there was a dinner party and Christmas feast
Alack and alas, dinner I could not tolerate
My Santa Fe Salad just sat on my plate
With grimace and agony, I grabbed at my left jaw
And ordered a drink from the first waitress I saw
Home again, home again, jiggity jog
But thanks to Irish Rootbeer I was in a fog
By the next morn, much throbbing ensued
And to my dental benefits my eyes did perused
I called all the dentists on my in-network plan
I would go to the dentist (thanks to insurance Mr Obama Yes I Can!)
But as it was nearly Christmas all my calls were ignored
As it turns out, even Muslims and Jews could not be implored
Not a phone call answered and the pain getting worse
I was beginning to think it was some kind of curse
"What should I do?" I cried out in distress
As the moments ticked by, I became more of a mess.
With guilt in my heart, to the kids dentist I texted
And it my brief note, the panic she detected
"I'll look in your mouth, we'll give it a whirl.
But I'm at the movies, with Arianna, my girl.
After the credits, at my office around two.
I will try to help and see what I can do."
And so in that pediatric dentistry chairI lay in discomfort, nearly pulling out my hair.
Tap-tap here, and a whip-whap there
A dental exam and an x-ray to spare
My worst fears were confirmed by Dr Houri that day
An infection needing root canal and probably decay
My head hanging low and just filled with shame
Poor attention to my teeth, I am to blame!
Can I help it if I 'Mrs Natural Childbirth'
Am afraid of the dentist for all that it's worth?
I'm afraid of the poking, the prodding, the anti-fun
And so for two years the check-ups weren't done
And now here I am, on Christmas indeed
With antibiotics, pain killers and fears not relieved
I'll be a big girl, on Monday you'll see
I'll make my appointment for endodontistry
The End
Monday, November 23, 2009
There seems to be something about a family with four young children that strikes pity into the hearts of many folks. Perhaps it is because my husband and look younger than our true ages, many people mistake us for early 20-somethings. They assume things, like: 1) we are prohibited by our church to use birth control, 2) my husband is military and these are post-deployment babies, 3) we're mentally challenged. Of course, non of this is true. But, none the less, we still get lots of pity.
There are benefits to the aforementioned pity. Before I get started, though, I want to clarify a few things. For starters, each of our pregnancies was planned. Secondly, we are not any of the following: crazy, overwhelmed, burdened, unhappy, or stressed out. We run a tight and happy ship, with well-rounded and well-fed children. Every night, we have dinner together as a complete family, our bathrooms have toilet paper, my children's clothes are clean, and they arrive at school on time everyday with their completed homework in hand. Lastly, we can afford them. We're not destitute, which isn't saying we're rolling in it cause if you've got $50K to give then we could use it terribly.
Despite all this, people seem to want to give us things. This can't be more true than when we're at some sort of family oriented party. For example, yesterday, Soren's competitive soccer team had an end of league season (we're faaaar from done with this whole thing) party. Each family brought some sort of dish to pass and the hosts provided the hot dogs, brats, beer and $1.2 million dollar home in Rancho Santa Fe to party in. We showed up with our veggie dogs, whole wheat buns, and fruit salad in a carved out watermelon. The Indian family on the team brought an amazing curry and naan. The middle eastern family on the team brought some sort of grain, fresh tomato, and bean dish and pita and hummus. The Hispanic family brought some salsa and crisp corn tortillas. All the other white people brought typical white people things. It was a great array of food, a good time was had, and I happily stumbled out of the party with 3/4 of a Corona Light under my belt.
At the end of the party, there was a huge sheet cake with chocolate mousse filling, gobs of frosting and a black and white soccer ball iced onto it. The cake was so huge that despite the 40 or so of us there, we couldn't even finish half. As we were leaving, the proper British hostess (more recently here from the Bay Area) offered to send us home with some of the food spread. We are so pitiful appearing that people feel the need to send us home with leftovers. This is one of the benefits of seeming pitiful, destitute, Mormon, enlisted and mentally challenged. When you leave foody parties, you often end up going home with yummy doggy bags.
I smiled to myself, imaging all that great food coming home with my poor, starving children. Lars rubbed his hands together, tongue in the corner of his mouth at the thought of the delicious curry and naan for dinner. If we were lucky, maybe she'd thrown in a couple of Corona Lights and a few Modelo Darks?
She comes out of the kitchen, smiling broadly at me and hands me a large tin laden with food inside. Lars and I hop in the car, and then safely out of sight, I take the top of the tin.
Cake. Half a frickin' sheet cake. No Middle Eastern grains with fresh tomatoes, no curry, no guacamole, or standard white people food. No beers even. Just half of a sheet cake meant to serve 80.
I suppose this is karma. After every holiday, I bring in my children's left-over candy to my barrio clinics in the inland where those kids don't have toothbrushes, let alone routine dental care.
Well, there must also be something about being pitiful that makes people think you need chocolate mousse sheet cakes instead of walnut-couscous salad with scallion vinaigrette. Go figure.
And, just now, I ate 2-pieces of it for lunch.
There are benefits to the aforementioned pity. Before I get started, though, I want to clarify a few things. For starters, each of our pregnancies was planned. Secondly, we are not any of the following: crazy, overwhelmed, burdened, unhappy, or stressed out. We run a tight and happy ship, with well-rounded and well-fed children. Every night, we have dinner together as a complete family, our bathrooms have toilet paper, my children's clothes are clean, and they arrive at school on time everyday with their completed homework in hand. Lastly, we can afford them. We're not destitute, which isn't saying we're rolling in it cause if you've got $50K to give then we could use it terribly.
Despite all this, people seem to want to give us things. This can't be more true than when we're at some sort of family oriented party. For example, yesterday, Soren's competitive soccer team had an end of league season (we're faaaar from done with this whole thing) party. Each family brought some sort of dish to pass and the hosts provided the hot dogs, brats, beer and $1.2 million dollar home in Rancho Santa Fe to party in. We showed up with our veggie dogs, whole wheat buns, and fruit salad in a carved out watermelon. The Indian family on the team brought an amazing curry and naan. The middle eastern family on the team brought some sort of grain, fresh tomato, and bean dish and pita and hummus. The Hispanic family brought some salsa and crisp corn tortillas. All the other white people brought typical white people things. It was a great array of food, a good time was had, and I happily stumbled out of the party with 3/4 of a Corona Light under my belt.
At the end of the party, there was a huge sheet cake with chocolate mousse filling, gobs of frosting and a black and white soccer ball iced onto it. The cake was so huge that despite the 40 or so of us there, we couldn't even finish half. As we were leaving, the proper British hostess (more recently here from the Bay Area) offered to send us home with some of the food spread. We are so pitiful appearing that people feel the need to send us home with leftovers. This is one of the benefits of seeming pitiful, destitute, Mormon, enlisted and mentally challenged. When you leave foody parties, you often end up going home with yummy doggy bags.
I smiled to myself, imaging all that great food coming home with my poor, starving children. Lars rubbed his hands together, tongue in the corner of his mouth at the thought of the delicious curry and naan for dinner. If we were lucky, maybe she'd thrown in a couple of Corona Lights and a few Modelo Darks?
She comes out of the kitchen, smiling broadly at me and hands me a large tin laden with food inside. Lars and I hop in the car, and then safely out of sight, I take the top of the tin.
Cake. Half a frickin' sheet cake. No Middle Eastern grains with fresh tomatoes, no curry, no guacamole, or standard white people food. No beers even. Just half of a sheet cake meant to serve 80.
I suppose this is karma. After every holiday, I bring in my children's left-over candy to my barrio clinics in the inland where those kids don't have toothbrushes, let alone routine dental care.
Well, there must also be something about being pitiful that makes people think you need chocolate mousse sheet cakes instead of walnut-couscous salad with scallion vinaigrette. Go figure.
And, just now, I ate 2-pieces of it for lunch.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Exercises in Breathing
I'm quietly positioned, flat on my back just like the article tells me to. This exercise is to "quiet my mind". Okay, I'm flattening out . . . just a sec', there is a Lego dude poking me in my left butt.
(-Mommy, what are you doing? -I'm breathing, Soren. Leave Mommy alone. -Oh, can I watch you? -No. -I'll just watch you quietly. -Whatever.)
Toss it away. Reflatten. I'm flattening. My belly's just a scooch slidey, though, so I gotta squeeze my ribs together. Sort of makes it so I can't breath, but the article says flatten. Should I be wearing a couple of sports bras?
(-Mommy, for how long are you gonna breathe for? -A long time, I hope. -Oh. long pause Are you still breathing?)
Okay, now it says "begin with a deep belly breath." Now, as a lady, I gotta say this feels a little awkward since it's hard to do a belly breath without the junk in my trunk oodling out a bit. Not to mention, my ribs are squeezy. This all feels a bit counter productive, and painful.
(-Mommy, please can you wipe me? -Be right there, Annike.)
Get this, now I'm supposed to say some thing positive in the form of a word or phrase. But I can't think of anything to say except "Hi, how ya doin'?" Which sets me to laughing. My ribs become unclenched, my boobs start shaking and I go fetal because it still burns across my c-section scar when any sort of effort is applied to my abs.
(-Mama?! Mama?! -She's in here, Petra! -What are you doing, Mama? -She's breathing, you can watch quietly. long pause -Excuse me, I tooted. -You're excused, Annike. giggles ensue)
Next, I'm supposed to exhale out all this negative stuff. Instead I accidentally belch because I just finished giggling, swallowing big heaps of air in the process.
(-Nah-nah? Nah-nah-nah? Ma-ma? then spitting and pulling of my hair)
Okay, so here's my thing, wouldn't a splash of wine be a bit simpler?
(-Mommy, what are you doing? -I'm breathing, Soren. Leave Mommy alone. -Oh, can I watch you? -No. -I'll just watch you quietly. -Whatever.)
Toss it away. Reflatten. I'm flattening. My belly's just a scooch slidey, though, so I gotta squeeze my ribs together. Sort of makes it so I can't breath, but the article says flatten. Should I be wearing a couple of sports bras?
(-Mommy, for how long are you gonna breathe for? -A long time, I hope. -Oh. long pause Are you still breathing?)
Okay, now it says "begin with a deep belly breath." Now, as a lady, I gotta say this feels a little awkward since it's hard to do a belly breath without the junk in my trunk oodling out a bit. Not to mention, my ribs are squeezy. This all feels a bit counter productive, and painful.
(-Mommy, please can you wipe me? -Be right there, Annike.)
Get this, now I'm supposed to say some thing positive in the form of a word or phrase. But I can't think of anything to say except "Hi, how ya doin'?" Which sets me to laughing. My ribs become unclenched, my boobs start shaking and I go fetal because it still burns across my c-section scar when any sort of effort is applied to my abs.
(-Mama?! Mama?! -She's in here, Petra! -What are you doing, Mama? -She's breathing, you can watch quietly. long pause -Excuse me, I tooted. -You're excused, Annike. giggles ensue)
Next, I'm supposed to exhale out all this negative stuff. Instead I accidentally belch because I just finished giggling, swallowing big heaps of air in the process.
(-Nah-nah? Nah-nah-nah? Ma-ma? then spitting and pulling of my hair)
Okay, so here's my thing, wouldn't a splash of wine be a bit simpler?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Probably, Too Much Information
Have I mentioned that Tova's been walking for almost 2-months now? Since then, my System has gone to the dogs (the dog from the previous post). Clearly, Tova's walking has everything to do with it.
For example, I have found Petra's toothbrush in the toilet. I had to pretend something else terrible went and happened to it, otherwise Petra would have shrieked her brains out. She loves that ding little baby of ours, but it would upset her dreadfully to learn that her toothbrush passed away in a receptacle for . . . umm, you know. I told her we left it at Elise's, that held her.
Tova's walking is also the reason why I fell 17-loads behind on laundry this week. I fell behind 17-loads! If Tova weren't walking, I wouldn't have to wash her socks. Socks are an awful thing. Plus, in her new found height, Tova pulls the drying clothes off the line and drags them around on the sidewalk chalk covered patio to the point where they need rewashing. With walking comes confidence, with confidence comes more dirt on the clothes and in the mouth, with more dirt in the mouth comes nasty out of diaper experiences.
On top of that 17-loads of laundry (not to mention this week's 24 that I need to get started on) I'm still playing catch-up from last week's of episode Me vs. the Clean House. Tova goes from room to room depositing things where they're not supposed to be, her hands are free so she can carry stuff around now. Little trinkets of the girls' suddenly appear in the grass outside. Lars' socks, from the Clean Sock Basket, end up in her mouth as she traverses 4-rooms in the house to end up plinking her baby fingies on the piano near the dining room.
Today, Tova snuffled herself awake at 7:10 a.m., which meant I had a narrow window in which to Booby Snack her before she got up and started poking around on her baby feetsies; not to mention, I had to scram for my 8 o'clock patient. On top of that, today was a big day at work. Today was the day in which we were having our TG potluck. I made an apple-raspberry pie. It needed to be impressive and dramatic, from taste to presentation and most importantly to where it happened to be displayed on the long table in the break room. Very important.
I had to get out of the house to procure a good spot!
Tovey snacked. Then I raced to get dressed (can't get dressed before feeding the Tovesters, otherwise I end up with drool and snot on my professional clothes), throwing on my fabulous Bohemian outfit in a jiff. With time to spare I peeled out the door, kissing the kids and husband in my wake. Breathlessly, I scooted in the car with my beautiful pie, sliding across my driver's seat only to incur a wedgie in the process.
The pie and I arrived in one piece. I got the coveted spot on the break-room table, and then went about my day seeing patients happily and without trials or tribulations. Except one thing, that wedgie I had from the morning slide across my car seat seemed to be unpickable. Inoperable. Granted, I was wearing my new cute undies designed to make behinds coveted by all who gaze upon them and to reignite passions in marriages that have gotten ho-hum. But still, I'd worn this particular pair before without any problems.
No time to bother, had patients to see. Babies to scan. Mamas to reassure. Endocervical cells to collect. Lumps to diagnose. And, oh dear me, there was the matter of that most impressive pie. Finally, our lunch hour arrived, with my panties in a bunch I plunked down in a chair amidst all my colleagues. I watched them devour my pie, licking their lips, oohing and ahhing with pleasure. Of course, I felt completely satisfied. Happy, well, except for the undie deal. But as a dehydrated breastfeeding mother, I never have to void and so no reason to stop at the WC to check the situation of the unpluckable undi-grundi.
End of the day arrived, I raced the kids into the house, headed straight for my room to change out of my work clothes and whaddya know?! My undies -- inside out and on backwards! Well, I'll be damned if that doesn't explain it all. With little time to dress this morning, chasing after Tova with my arms barely pulled through my dress and all this in the darkness of daylight savings it's no wonder. If Tova just blobbed around in her bed like a good baby should, then absolutely none of this would have happened.
On another note, it's a great professional advantage. Now, when my patients call me with complaints of discomfort in their nethers I will firstly advise them to check which way they happen to be wearing their skivvies that day (then charge 'em $70 bucks for treating them).
For example, I have found Petra's toothbrush in the toilet. I had to pretend something else terrible went and happened to it, otherwise Petra would have shrieked her brains out. She loves that ding little baby of ours, but it would upset her dreadfully to learn that her toothbrush passed away in a receptacle for . . . umm, you know. I told her we left it at Elise's, that held her.
Tova's walking is also the reason why I fell 17-loads behind on laundry this week. I fell behind 17-loads! If Tova weren't walking, I wouldn't have to wash her socks. Socks are an awful thing. Plus, in her new found height, Tova pulls the drying clothes off the line and drags them around on the sidewalk chalk covered patio to the point where they need rewashing. With walking comes confidence, with confidence comes more dirt on the clothes and in the mouth, with more dirt in the mouth comes nasty out of diaper experiences.
On top of that 17-loads of laundry (not to mention this week's 24 that I need to get started on) I'm still playing catch-up from last week's of episode Me vs. the Clean House. Tova goes from room to room depositing things where they're not supposed to be, her hands are free so she can carry stuff around now. Little trinkets of the girls' suddenly appear in the grass outside. Lars' socks, from the Clean Sock Basket, end up in her mouth as she traverses 4-rooms in the house to end up plinking her baby fingies on the piano near the dining room.
Today, Tova snuffled herself awake at 7:10 a.m., which meant I had a narrow window in which to Booby Snack her before she got up and started poking around on her baby feetsies; not to mention, I had to scram for my 8 o'clock patient. On top of that, today was a big day at work. Today was the day in which we were having our TG potluck. I made an apple-raspberry pie. It needed to be impressive and dramatic, from taste to presentation and most importantly to where it happened to be displayed on the long table in the break room. Very important.
I had to get out of the house to procure a good spot!
Tovey snacked. Then I raced to get dressed (can't get dressed before feeding the Tovesters, otherwise I end up with drool and snot on my professional clothes), throwing on my fabulous Bohemian outfit in a jiff. With time to spare I peeled out the door, kissing the kids and husband in my wake. Breathlessly, I scooted in the car with my beautiful pie, sliding across my driver's seat only to incur a wedgie in the process.
The pie and I arrived in one piece. I got the coveted spot on the break-room table, and then went about my day seeing patients happily and without trials or tribulations. Except one thing, that wedgie I had from the morning slide across my car seat seemed to be unpickable. Inoperable. Granted, I was wearing my new cute undies designed to make behinds coveted by all who gaze upon them and to reignite passions in marriages that have gotten ho-hum. But still, I'd worn this particular pair before without any problems.
No time to bother, had patients to see. Babies to scan. Mamas to reassure. Endocervical cells to collect. Lumps to diagnose. And, oh dear me, there was the matter of that most impressive pie. Finally, our lunch hour arrived, with my panties in a bunch I plunked down in a chair amidst all my colleagues. I watched them devour my pie, licking their lips, oohing and ahhing with pleasure. Of course, I felt completely satisfied. Happy, well, except for the undie deal. But as a dehydrated breastfeeding mother, I never have to void and so no reason to stop at the WC to check the situation of the unpluckable undi-grundi.
End of the day arrived, I raced the kids into the house, headed straight for my room to change out of my work clothes and whaddya know?! My undies -- inside out and on backwards! Well, I'll be damned if that doesn't explain it all. With little time to dress this morning, chasing after Tova with my arms barely pulled through my dress and all this in the darkness of daylight savings it's no wonder. If Tova just blobbed around in her bed like a good baby should, then absolutely none of this would have happened.
On another note, it's a great professional advantage. Now, when my patients call me with complaints of discomfort in their nethers I will firstly advise them to check which way they happen to be wearing their skivvies that day (then charge 'em $70 bucks for treating them).
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Maggie and the Technicolor Dream Coat
The life and times of our sweet Magdalena Humphindinkellheimer are filled with riveting tales of love, loss, humor, deceit and adventure. Her life of intrigue is kinetic and fast-paced, complex to the core.
Recently, Maggie was inspired to change her looks. Don't be fooled by her blase demeanor, she really found it all quite fantastic.
Recently, Maggie was inspired to change her looks. Don't be fooled by her blase demeanor, she really found it all quite fantastic.
Just another day for our ebullient hound dog.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
I would never . . .
I would never bore you with annoying pictures of my kids in Halloween costumes. How irksome is that? To look at pictures of other peoples kids, as if they were cuter or more special than your own. Plus, it's really hackneyed. I mean, for crying out loud, I'm striving for originality here.
Keeping that in mind, the following may or may not be my children just prior to pillaging the outer reaches of the globe/subdivision on their most recent Viking exploits.
I absolutely cannot say with certainty that I clearly or vividly may recall when this picture might have been possibly taken. Really, sort of, I can't exactly particularly remember.
Besides, Halloween was quite some time ago. I only bother to bring up current events.
Keeping that in mind, the following may or may not be my children just prior to pillaging the outer reaches of the globe/subdivision on their most recent Viking exploits.
I absolutely cannot say with certainty that I clearly or vividly may recall when this picture might have been possibly taken. Really, sort of, I can't exactly particularly remember.
Besides, Halloween was quite some time ago. I only bother to bring up current events.
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