Can’t say I didn’t warn you
Enjoy stuffing that turkey next week!
Can’t say I didn’t warn you
Enjoy stuffing that turkey next week!
She claims this is French onion soup
Did it just come out of the microwave? I think you left it in too long.
And this? Is that soap?
Now I get it. She ate this. ‘French onion soup’ is apparently the euphemism for what happened to her toilet afterwards.
And then we have the four sorbets of the apocalypse
Crush them before they hatch!
To all you chefs that get the ‘honor’ of cooking for Martha Stewart, please, for the love of food, take her camera phone away.
So I decided to semi-furlough Muse. And by semi-furlough, I mean do it government style. No, not by paying someone extra to put up Barrycades or anything. I mean deeming Muse ‘essential’ for running the blog and thus required to show up and work without pay.
But now, Muse is pissed. Sure, all the back pay will be caught up on the next paycheck just like all the other furloughed members of the team. Muse is pissed that even though Creativity was just sleeping late and playing video games, Creativity gets back pay too. As does Research and Wit, even though they have clearly been absent from the blog. Snark* is just giving me dirty looks and making wry comments, so nothing new.
I’d send Muse to a therapist, but I can’t tell whether or not that’s covered under the new health insurance policy. But the good news is that we’ve decided to raise the humor limit. This blog now demands 20% more laughs with no promise of increase in the funny output!
Or, why Jennifer was never invited to teach Sunday School again.
I believe the statute of limitations has expired and so I can tell the story.
Several years ago at a church we no longer attend, I was asked to teach a Sunday school class. It being the Sunday before Christmas, the regular teacher was out of town visiting family but had left the lesson plans. I’d never done it before, but why not? I can talk about 3 wise men and a star to a room full of 4-6 year olds, right?
The way this particular class worked, there were 3 stations, the craft station, the music station, and the actual lesson part (me!). The children were split into 3 groups, each starting at a different station. Each group contained about 7-12 kids.
My station was actually located inside a classroom so as not to be disturbed by the noise of the craft and music stations. I sat in a chair and directed the children to make themselves comfortable on the carpet squares arranged in a semi-circle around me so I could tell them a story.
Twelve little girls wearing the fluffiest, laciest, pinkest Sunday dresses settled in with wide, attentive eyes. They listened to every word as if I had magically morphed into a Pixar creation. They raised their hands and didn’t speak until called on.
I am a rock star, deftly explaining everything from mangers to frankincense and why sometimes telling a lie to a king is the right thing to do. This is pretty alright. I start thinking I should maybe do this more often. The bell rings and the little girls each insist on hugging me before moving on to their next station.
The next group takes a little more time settling into the semi-circle. They are more animated than the first group and are exuberant about the crafts they have just completed. They interrupt more than the first group, but they are still paying attention. I only have to confiscate one macaroni manger.
Alright, I think to myself. I handled that nicely. Maybe I really could do this. Fewer hugs at the bell this time, but we’ve run a bit over time and they need to hurry to the next station.
I open the door to admit the final batch of children. They are loud and boisterous, but I get them settled on their carpet squares.
And then the blond came in. He’s a cherubic looking boy with one shoe untied and Popsicle stick behind his ear. He has taken a running start. He bursts into the room with a wail of a scalded banshee, targets an unoccupied square of carpet, pounces on it and rides it across the linoleum to the opposite end of the room. I congratulate him on his dramatic entrance and tell him to join the other students.
He starts an epic Popsicle stick war with the felt Jesus on the wall. I have lost my audience. I explain that there are probably more appropriate ways to address our Lord and Savior than as a ‘dirty landlubber,’ but at least now I understood the game. I confiscated his Popsicle cutlass and directed the littlest swashbuckler back to the story circle.
He followed my directions with gusto! And by gusto I mean taking a running start and riding the carpet square to the other side of the room while challenging the other students to race. I abandoned the lesson plan and had them race in groups of three pretending to be wise men desperate to see the baby. Work with what you can, right?
Oh but this was not enough chaos for our tiny pirate! No!
I’m not entirely sure what happened next, but I do know that no macaroni manger made it out unscathed. I have now physically restrained the demon spawn in the grown up chair and am threatening to tie him to it before I hang him up by his toenails. I am speaking in that sharply accented whisper that we learn in super secret mom school. My mother’s voice is magically coming out of my mouth. His eyes are now the size of dinner plates and for one glorious moment he knows fear. My nose is one inch from his. Tears are just beginning to well up.
Yes, my precious! I have introduced discipline and nearly broken his will! Perhaps his future will not contain an orange jumpsuit and an ankle bracelet after all.
I am on camera.
It’s a live feed.
His parents are at the monitor.
They didn’t thank me. But I have yet to receive either a summons or a bill for his therapy, so I’m calling it a win-win.
Oh right, this is supposed to be a minefield Friday post. We’ll call this one the parenting advice edition. Well disciplined children have nothing to fear from Sunday School teachers.
Amazingly, my car started just fine and the interstate highway was still in existence this morning. I was kind of hoping to get the day off. Although, I didn’t wash my colander so my face mask smells faintly of kimchi preparations. Having a good hair day too. I had no idea unruly hair was a function of the government. Thank goodness it’s non-essential.
The ceiling raccoon in the office must either not be a government employee or eating the insulation of private industry is considered an essential function. I’m betting on the latter.
It’s been calm in these parts. I figure it will be a few days before the zombie hoards make it this far inland. I should probably confer with Robb regarding vehicular armaments. I was considering a flame-thrower or a badger catapult, but the Ma Deuce is always a good choice.
For those that are curious, I did get a sneak peak at last night’s Congressional negotiations. They went a little something like this.
Or, at least that’s what I walked in on in my living room. Seems accurate. If cat blogging is good enough for Tam, it’s good enough for me!
In the Garden of Eden, God gave Adam and Eve access to every firearm out there except for the AR-15 which he told them not to touch because it was too evil. But then the NRA, in the guise of a serpent, told Eve that the AR-15 is really fun to shoot. So then Eve took the AR-15 and started shooting all the animals in the garden because she is one awesome chick.
There’s more. RTWT
You know, I never expected to read an article that needed that particular clarification. Thanks, David Thompson. That’s certainly a new thing today.
And more from the update to the original article.
Still, I hope that you will not only stand firm with me in refraining from infant cannibalism, but that you will also urge your friends, family members, and neighbors to do the same.
Not a problem, thanks.
As recap, babies may be scrumptious, but DO NOT EAT THEM!
Although, as the mother of a teenager, sometimes I understand why some species eat their young…
Or, Jennifer’s adventure in athleticism.
*Imagine a picture of a silver medal here*
Yes, it really does exist, but is apparently not in the drawer where I thought I had stashed it. Which is rather unfortunate as it is the only tangible proof that I have ever participated in a contest in athletics. That would be because it is the only contest of the sort that I’ve ever participated in.
But yeah, silver medal.
It was the summer of 2007, and I had slogged many hours on the office treadmill gazing across the corporate logo out at the street below. Since I owed the company some gratitude for the continued perkiness of my backside, it seemed only logical to sign up for the company’s first foray into the local corporate challenge. Never mind that I was towards the higher end of my age bracket and had never competed in that sort of thing before. Sure 50 yards couldn’t be a big deal to dash.
We met on the field of a local high school on that hot Saturday in July. My competition was both younger and more experienced than I. Maybe if they changed the rules to where I could Charleston to the finish line. I could even mix it up with a jazz square or something.
But it was not to be. They fired the gun and we were off! Lo and behold I came in 2nd in the pack!
There were 3 of us.
One girl fell down…
I also ran the mile. I finished and did not die. Thus endeth my running career. Suppose that disqualifies me as a potential companion for the Doctor.
This is what I mean when I say to anyone googling, I’m the Jennifer that shoots, not the one that runs. (There was a Dutch marathon runner of the same name that would come up in searches, but I seem to have surpassed her in Google’s algorithms.)