camel ribs

This story starts of innocently enough.

It was a Special Day, and we were all celebrating by eating a meal not pre-prepared by Costco. There were ribs, and potatoes, and mixed vegetables from a big plastic bag. The ribs, however, were not the baby-back ribs we normally eat. They were huge, and The Pretty One asked, all innocently curious, what kind of ribs they were.

It's my brain's fault, because it is devious and mean and it thinks it's funny. I didn't even pause, just said, with a straight face and uninflected voice. "They're camel ribs. Duh."

At my side, The Smart One nodded. "Duh."

The Pretty One looked appropriately doubtful. "Don't lie to me," she said.

Again: It's my brain's fault. 

"No, look," I said. "Think about it. Have you ever seen a cow?" I held the rib I was munching on. "They're not shaped like this. At all."

The Pretty One still looked doubtful. I sighed, and presented her with my argument. 

And, obviously, the ribs we were eating looked more camel-shaped. 

Duh, The Pretty One. Seriously.

Everyone at the table nodded. Of course.

The matter was settled, until six months later, out to dinner with friends, The Pretty One turns to me and says, all accusation and dawning realization: "... We don't eat camel ribs, do we?"

broken hearts

The Funny One is pretty funny, in case you didn’t know or hadn’t realized. He’s funny when he means to be, but he also has a long-standing history of being hilarious on absolute accident.

Case in point:

Here on the compound, we have a thing for Vacation Bible Schools. This is a story for another time, but what is important in this case is that, every summer we endeavor to take advantage of as many free weeks of crafts/snacks/games/free t-shirt opportunities as possible.

One summer, The Funny One was told, by a well-meaning bible school volunteer, that Jesus lives in his heart. The Funny One was somewhere between two and three years old, and he was enthralled.

Cut to a few months later, when The Funny One and I are having some long-forgotten conversation. Now, I don’t remember what I said, don’t recall it being particularly mean or vicious or anything of the sort. All I remember is that I said something not-quite kind, and The Funny One burst in hysterical tears. Hysterical tears. I was shocked. And a little scared, because I knew I was about to be in major trouble for making the baby cry like he was dying.

He wouldn’t stop. He just got louder and louder and louder, and more and more distraught. Eventually, everyone on the compound was gathered round and asking, “Funny One! Funny One! What’s wrong? Are you ok? What’s wrong?”

He finally managed to force out: “MARIE BROKE MY HEART!”

This is when the giggles started. But, as a good familial unit, we kept from laughing out loud.

Her Highness told him that, honey, it’s ok. You’ll be fine. Deep breaths.

The Funny One just kept bawling. He said, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”

Again with the repressed giggles.

Her Highness asked, “What don’t we understand?”

The Funny One composed himself a little. He was teeny-tiny and super sad and we are all horrible people because once he started talking, we couldn’t stop laughing.

This is what he said:

“Marie broke my heart, and now Jesus is going to fall out and I am going to die.”

In case that wasn’t clear:

EDIT: It has come to my attention that I was mistaken about something very crucial to this story. The Funny One was not actually afraid Jesus falling out of his heart would result in death. No. He was terrified that the lack of Jesus would result in an inability to go to heaven. Which is much more traumatic, to a Bible School junkie of a toddler. 

adventures in crocheting: an epilogue

Photographic evidence that despite her initial shortcomings, The Pretty One is not a failure.

(I am.)

She is currently working on sock #2. Success is still questionable.

adventures in crocheting

As of approximately 7PM tonight, everyone on the compound is officially finished with the Fall 2011 semester!

In celebration, The Pretty One and I decided we were going to crochet, because we are old women like that. And since it is cold and rainy and disgustingly wintery here, it was obvious we should work on items of clothing that would contribute to our sincere efforts to not freeze to death. We found these knitted sock things and thought, Yes!

Looked easy enough, and we are prone to cockiness when we think we even have a basic grasp on the skills required to complete a task. This self-confidence is unfounded. As you will shortly realize. Below, witness each of our first attempts at making socks. Yes, they are hats. Of vastly different sizes. This was absolutely, embarrassingly unintentional. 

Some would consider this an epic failure.

We did.

Until we realized how perfect The Pretty One's hat was for....

Patootyism

Here on the compound, we really appreciate humor. 

We even (especially?) appreciate humor at the expense of others. Or ourselves. Or The Pretty One.

Every Sunday, we and The Bossy One's family eat at our local fake-Asian restaurant. There is always much gossiping, and occasionally there is also plotting. 

During the summer, The Pretty One, The Smart One, and I work at the pool teaching small and large children how best not to drown when near or in a pool. The Bossy One is our Boss. At the pools, there is a slight problem with romantical relationships and the inevitable drama that results. At the time of the conception of patootyism was born, The Pretty One was in the first tentative stages of such a possible relationship. Because the Compound inhabitants are horrible people, we found this hilarious and worthy of much teasing. 

Sidenote: The Pretty One is gullible. Very, very gullible.

And so, over chicken fried rice and crab wontons, The Doctor whispers to The Bossy One. 

"I have a plan."

The plan was patootyism. 

Patootyism is, as The Boss Lady and I told The Pretty One, like nepotism. Only not. Because it's just when people work together and are in a relationship. Which is a real concept, but patootyism is not a real word. In case you were not aware. 

The Pretty one bought it. She absolutely, unquestionably believed us. She got angry at our suggestion she was unprofessional, worried about how much to interact with her love interest at work, defensive to our teasing. She also told pretty much everyone else at our place of work to watch out for patootyism, because, as we had told her, it could get you fired. And lectured by the Big Boss Man. And fired.

The summer passed. Patootyism was used in daily, normal conversation. We even talked about it at inservice training. It became a real thing. Better yet? It stayed a real thing.

She only realized that we were lying liars who tell lies this week. 

The best part of all this?

There are fifteen kids walking around the world, right now, who wouldn't blink if you started a conversation with them about all the reasons patootyism is not a good idea. They would probably chime in with personal anecdotes. 

(We still love you.)

mad skillz

You should be impressed. 

We're a human totem pole dedicated to the spirit of win, or something equally foolish and dramatic.

From the bottom up: Me, The Pretty One, The Wild One. 

Coming soon: FOUR PEOPLE.

music videos and death

Have you seen Demi Lovato's new music video? It's her new song, Skyscraper. It's a pretty horrible video. Really. Bad. I was most annoyed by the fact that when she sings the line, "I will be rising from the ground like a skyscraper!" no actual skyscraper pops out of the desert floor on which filming is taking place. So lame, right?

The following conversation happened en route to church:

[someone mentions the general atrociousness of the video, which The Smart One has not seen]

The Pretty One: "... Oh yeah. It sucks. And then, at the end, she dies."

[Everyone looks shocked.]

Me: "... No, she doesn't"

The Pretty One: "Yeah. Well. She should have."

Also, this happened today:

The Middle One: "If you could have any one wish, what would you wish for?"

The Funny One: "I would wish... for.... Oh! I would wish for all the trash in the world to magically poof away!"

TMO: "... Why?"

TFO: "So we don't die. Did you know that we bury trash? And it gets in the ground? And in the air? And in the rain? And it could kill us. [Rant about the dangers of garbage continues. He's ten, in case you didn't check the sidebar.]"

carrots, celery, morality, and other fibrous things

The following conversation occurred while The Smart one was helping The Temporary One with his 'how to be a good person' class. They were talking about what you should do if the cashier gives you an extra five dollars in change. Or something. 

Has it ever occurred to anyone else that 'moral fiber' is a weird phrase?

The Smart One (typing as he speaks): "I... would... probably...."

Me: "Keep the money. Cha-ching!"

TSO: "... Because I have no moral fiber."

Me: "Because you're like Wonder Bread, or something."

TSO: "And not a carrot."

Me: "I would probably keep the money because my moral fiber is more reminiscent of a cheeto than celery."

TSO (to The Temporary One): "Can I put that? Can we please say you're more like a cheeto than celery?"

The Temporary One: "Um.. No?"

TSO: "How about, 'I would return the money because my moral fiber is like celery?'" 

TTO: "No."

Me: "OH I KNOW! 'I would return the money because my moral fiber is more similar to the fiber content of those foods consumed by individuals of higher socioeconomic status than those of lower socioeconomic standing."

TSO/Me: "BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Dobby

So we have a pet wallaroo.

Seriously.

He's pretty great. He likes pretzels, belly rubs, ear scratches, our Golden Retriever, and attempting to groom the people he loves, even though the people he loves don't really appreciate that at all, because he has tiny, grabby little Velociraptor hands that don't feel so great when they're trying to rip non-existent bugs off your legs. He also hisses like a cat, but only when he's happy. Two years later, and I still have to remind myself that the hissing is not my clue to back away slowly.

Dobby also comes when called. Consistently. And pretty rapidly. We have a ridiculously large number of pets, and only two other creatures (the dogs! and only two of them!) in our world do that. So we enjoy it. Also, I love Dobby enough to talk to him in the stereotypically doting baby-voice of all pet owners. I already know this - you don't need to point it out.

This is How it Starts

With The Pretty One slowly waking up and becoming semi-coherent after getting her wisdom teeth pulled. A nice sister would have been too busy comforting her to get the camera rolling. I, however, had the camera ready and - about five seconds after the end of this clip - put on a song I knew she would try to sing along to. She did, and it was funny. I taped it. A post for another day?