So the other day Micah says,
Oh, wait I cannot tell you what he said yet because it requires a little bit of background info that you may or may not want to know. The brief version is that Randy and I call each other "Taters" and Micah knows this and sometimes tries to summon us via that name himself.
(The longer version, for those of you who are brave enough to delve that deeply into our marital issues, is that, well I can't remember all the details, but I became very enamored with Smeagal - sorry if I spelled that wrong, I actually am 1 of only like 3 Americans who only consented to watch the LOTR movies because I was promised popcorn. Anyway, I love how he goes, "What's 'taters' Hobbit?" And they respond with "PO-TA-TOES" So Randy and I started calling each other "PO-TA-TOES" as a Proper Nickname, or "Taters" as a more Informal Nickname. I even mailed him a letter addressed to Potatoes R. Miles a few years ago. So anyway, we call each other "Taters" now. Or just "Tates" if we're in a big rush.
So the other day Micah goes (and I still do not know what on earth he was referring to)
"Taters, that is expensive and hilarious"
Huh?
I think he was talking to Randy, but it's hard to tell seeing as I wasn't looking at him when he said it and Randy was in the other room. Oh yeah, and I suppose that it's a little confusing since he used the Informal Nickname, rather than, as would be expected when addressing one in a position of authority, the Proper Nickname, but that's besides the point.
The point is, um, I'm not quite sure what the point is, but I'm trying my very best to make it right here in this paragraph. Oh, the point is that Micah picks up these adjectives from us and maybe he thinks he knows what they mean or maybe not, but he feels mighty great when he can string a few together in a robust sentence, which he speaks with the utmost confidence.
I personally find it to be mighty hilarious (and perhaps, if I blog about it to the point where he someday needs therapy, expensive).
This isn't at all related to the previous, but I have been wanting to blog about what happened this past Spring when I went to buy sand for our little turtle sandbox for quite some time now. I seem to get such a kick out of making fun of myself, that I earnestly look for opportunities to do just that. And for some reason that I probably don't want to explore too deeply, people seem to really enjoy reading about it. "Hey, check it out! Shari did yet another Horrendously Dumb Thing! I wonder what her average HDTs per day is."
So I've never purchased sand before. I don't know how my sandbox got sand in it when I was growing up, but it was just always there (so thanks Mom and Dad!!) I never stressed about it or wondered how much it cost or how it got from the sand factory to my personal sandbox. I just played with it. And I wanted Micah to be able to do the same. So using my Big Smarts I finally came to the conclusion that sandbox sand was probably to be found at Toys 'R Us since it is generally used by small children as a plaything (many probably also use it as food, but that's a topic for another time).
So I go there one afternoon (the kids and Randy didn't join me for this one) and ask the Nice People of Helpfulness where I can get the sandbox sand. They tell me that it comes in 50 pound bags and I can pay for a little ticket and then drive around back, hand some other Nice People of Helpfulness the ticket, and they will give me the sand. Well! I suspect that at this point a normal person would be able to guesstimate what 50 pounds of sand amounts to, purchase an appropriate number of Special Tickets, drive around back, put the sand into their car, and drive home to fulfill their own dream for their child's happiness. But not me. NO. I guess that any spatial relations skills I did have, seeped over to Randy (as if he needed more) while we slept or something. Because I was thinking (and thank goodness I didn't VERBALIZE this to anyone in the store), "Wow! 50 pounds of sand for only $5.00! What a deal! I'm really glad I don't have much stuff in my trunk. I'll have to try to make as much room as possible for this bag. I'm glad they have nice strong people to load it in for me so I don't hurt myself trying to manuever such a HUGE bag."
So I clear away this enormous space in my trunk, drive all purposefully around back and hand in my ticket. I can hardly contain my excitement as I await this mammoth bag of sand that the strong man will bring… when he comes out with this itty bitty bag that's like smaller than a standard bag of catfood and plinks it into my gaping trunk space. It's like using an entire 2-burner skillet to fry a single crouton.
Come to think of it, purchasing sand was kind of (drum roll please) expensive and hilarious.
it’s cheaper at the hardware store but it isn’t soft and suburban-child-friendly. It is for Real Children, who grow up on Farms and have Hard Skin and blisters. And you can get it delievered to your driveway by a truck if you buy it in “yards” instead of pounds. Which is probably how your dad got it.
Yes; however, if you knew anything about suburban life you would know that the hardware sand probably contains some sort of something that is a carcinogen and so you need to make sure you spend 3 times as much for the stuff that has been filtered of ALL nastyness. That is, of course, until you forget to put the turtles shell back on and the local cats use it as a 3 ply Cottonelle liter box.