Sissy was flipping through Christmas Specials the other day when she suddenly stopped on one and called over her shoulder to me, “Look, Mom! It’s the movie you ruined my childhood with!”

To which I replied, “Oh, yeah. That’s a good one.  Let’s watch it.”

Betchyer curious to know how that movie…or really me in conjunction with that movie…ruined her childhood. So if you insist on hearing about it, then please sign the attached waiver because I don’t want you coming back to me and saying I ruined YOUR childhood too.  And then read the disclaimer below.  Then we can proceed.

And it’s not like I ruined her whole LIFE, just her childhood, so let’s get some perspective on this, please.

Disclaimer: Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus. So if you’re name IS Virginia and/or you believe in Santa, please read no further.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

I still haven’t gotten your waiver, so please send that asap. But we’ll proceed without further ado…

It was April of my daughter’s 5^th grade year.  It was just the two of us.  Going to a soccer game.  And coming back from a soccer game.  An hour-and-a-half car trip each way.  She watched The Polar Express the whole way down.  I listened to the Polar Express the whole way down.  And thought the whole way down, “Hmmmm, my mother told me about Santa in 5th grade*.  Is it time for me to do the same?  I’ll be all kind and loving about it.  Not all blunt and blurt-y like she was.  And my timing is WAY better.”  [ho, ho, ho.  How the mighty will shortly fall.]

So – when the movie wrapped up soon after the ride home started, I seized the moment…and asked my daughter if she believed in Santa. She said yes and turned the tables on me and asked me the same question.  I said I believed that there is a “Spirit of Christmas” (thanks for that one, Mom!) and again asked her if she believed in Santa.  She was adamant this time.  As if this were a test of her powers of intellect and persuasion, “Yes.  I BELIEVE IN SANTA, DO YOU??”

“Sweetheart. There is no Santa.”

“YES THERE IS!!!”

“No, Honey. It’s your father and I.”

Oh. My.  GooodnessGodnessAgnes.  Am I channeling my mother?!  Her voice is actually coming out of my mouth.

At that point my daughter gasped like I had shot her through the heart. Which I suppose I did.  Then she turned her face to the window.  And cried the whole way home.

As did I.

There were a few other words exchanged on that car ride home. Things like, “So…does that mean the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy aren’t real either??”

Good Lord! I NEVER agreed to talking about THEM!  It never occurred to me that she would put all of them together.  HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS WAS COMING?!? 

“That’s right, Sweet Girl. It’s your father and I.”

Which was followed by a fresh round of sobbing from the back seat.

Oh boy. This is going badly.

“Sweetheart. I thought you kinda knew or suspected.  If you think about it, the whole thing doesn’t hold up.  It’s impossible for one man to do all of the stuff he’s supposed to do.”

“BUT I DID BELIEVE. I BELIEVED!!!!”

“I’m sorry Little Baby. I thought you kindof knew.  But either way, you’re going into middle school, and I thought it was important for you to find out from me rather than end up embarrassed by insisting that there IS a Santa in front of others when there ISN’T a Santa.”

When we got home she threw herself on the couch and sobbed some more. At which point I was frantic because her brother-who-still-believes was due home at any moment.

“Listen, this isn’t the end of the world. I know it’s a surprise and a shock and you get to take your time coming to terms with it.  But you CANNOT tell your brother, ok?  He gets to believe until he’s in fifth grade too.”

“NO! IT’S NOT FAIR!  I’M GONNA TELL HIM!!!!!  CHRISTMAS IS RUINED!!!!!” No, no, Sweetie, Christmas isn’t ruined, it’s just your childhood that is.

“No, you’re not going to tell him. And Christmas isn’t ruined.  I truly believe that there is something called the ‘Spirit of Christmas’ Thanks again, Mom. That came from you LOOONG before there was a Polar Express movie that makes the holiday more enjoyable as you get older.  Even though I don’t believe in Santa anymore, I still have a great time at Christmas.  And you will too!”

“NO! I WON’T.  IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN!!!”

“True. But now you can fully participate in it.  You’ll still get gifts.  And a stocking.  And it will all still be a surprise.  And you will still get gifts from everyone else – Sonny and your grandparents and aunts and uncles.  And you still get to come down and open up all the gifts on Christmas morning as early as you want.  And NOW?  Now you can play Santa for others.  For Sonny.  Or for a less-fortunate family we ‘adopt’ for the season.  Trust me, it will all be ok.  It’s not like I told you to stop believing in God.  And let’s remember what we’re celebrating anyway.  Jesus’ birth.  So there’s that.  That doesn’t go away.  He was born for us.  So let’s remember that.  But what you CAN’T do is ruin it for other kids.  It’s not your place to tell them about Santa Claus.  I’m happy to answer any questions you have, but you musn’t talk to Sonny about this.  Understood?”

[sniff, sniff. Shuddering sigh] “Ok.”

For the rest of that day, whenever we were alone, she would pepper me with questions:

• What about the Shelf Elf? Was that just you too?
• CRAP! The WHOLE dream is dying right NOW. This very DAY!!! Yes, sweetie. That was me.

OR

• What do you do with all the teeth?
• I saved them all. Would you like them back?
• NO!!!!

AND

• What do you do with the cookies? Eat them and drink the milk??
• I usually put the cookies back and pour the milk back too. And just bite off the bottom of the carrots and sprinkle those around.
• Oh.

And as I was lying in bed that night, crying my own self while relaying the conversation in all its horribleness to my husband – bemoaning the fact that she really didn’t seem to KNOW already, he says, “She suspended disbelief. She was able to suspend disbelief and believe.”

Hmmmm…a pat on the back or a tissue would have been more helpful at the time. But he might be on to something.

And thus ends this winter’s tale of the death of a childhood. A bit of a bummer, I agree.  It still makes my heart shrivel.

But enough about me. Back to you.  I’m wishing you a joyful and peaceful Christmas.  I hope you can suspend disbelief for a little while and believe…in the spirit of the season.  For the Christ child is born again into the world to save us.

“Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”  -Conductor, Polar Express

* Yes, my mother told me about Santa Claus when I was in 5^th grade too, thanks for asking.  In December, as we were walking into RJ Mars to buy Christmas gifts, she suddenly turned to me in the doorway and told me there was no Santa Claus; That it was she and my father all-along.  And then I had to spend the rest of the time in the store choking back tears, viewing everything through a haze.  Utterly devastated about all of it, including the sucky timing, consumed with worry that I wouldn’t get ANYTHING on Christmas morning since I now knew what was what on the Santa front.  Why?  How did YOU find out?

My kids have become enamored lately with this show called “Dual Survival.”  Have you seen it?  It’s been around for a while but we just clued in to it.

It’s about these two guys who show us how to survive in a variety of unlikely scenarios. But first, they live the scenario and then talk you through what you’d do every step of the way.  Take, for example, the following:

Episode 23 – Two gentlemen are dressed in tuxes standing on the deck of a glorious ocean liner as it makes its maiden voyage to America. When suddenly!  The ship strikes an iceberg.  Then, as the band plays on, everyone plummets into the water and dies of hypothermia and drowning.  –End scene–  In my personal opinion, that episode was a little much and didn’t necessarily float my boat guck, guck, guck pun intended but it was informative in a “bring more lifeboats next time” sort of way.

Episode 37 – Now the show stars are posing as two young men who are traveling with a rugby team to Santiago, Chile. But first they have to fly through the Andes Mountains whereupon their plane crashes and they have to consume each other to live. Naw, didn’t see that coming at all.   But again, informative in a “tips-and-tricks for surviving a plane crash AND an avalanche AND cannibalism especially if there’s no ointment for any of that in the poorly stocked first aid kit” sort of way.

And the show goes on and on. Each new episode seems to be shorter than the last.  And it seems like there are two new guys in every episode as well.  I’m not sure if that’s actually the case, or if it’s because the status of their ever-changing beards just makes them look like different guys.  Further, I’m not 100% sure what there is to like about this show other than that one part where the two survivalists are acting like goodfellas carousing at the Copacabana chit-chatting about how they hijacked a truck under the direction of their capo…

Ok, stop.  Now I’m just completely making stuff up.

Watch the show your own self and tell me what you think. But remember, never rat on your friends, and always keep your mouth shut.

What with all of the upcoming opportunities to drink…er…I mean the holidays, I’ve been in the liquor store more than usual lately.

And even though I’m now a sanctioned adult and fully authorized to be there, I still feel weird about it.

Is it just me on that one?!

Because I’m always vaguely worried someone may have called ahead from college through the tightly interconnected liquor store network and warned them I’m on my way.  So by the time I get there, I feel like everyone at the store is spying me with their little eyes and they know, KNOW, about the very wrong Flaming Dr. Pepper Shots Incident backintheday.  (In my own defense, I didn’t spill the drink that caused the bartop to go up in those weird blue flames.  That was someone else.  I was just the Idea Gal on the Flaming Dr. Pepper Shots.)

Or perhaps my feeling of unease comes from being at the liquor store in the middle of the day, when it’s so oddly quiet and everyone’s got their peepers on each other being all judge-y about stuff that happened a million years ago.

I mean, who even GOES to liquor stores in the middle of the day?!?

I was wondering that very question the last time I was at the liquor store doing a little holiday booze hunting when I say him.  Him!  Neighbor Man.

No, not Helpful Next Door Neighbor Man.  (You still have to get yourself one of those if you haven’t already.).  It was the Neighbor Man who got so loop-de-looped at the last block party that he stumbled up to Sonny who for some reason was dragging around his squeaky red wagon, and asked for a ride home.  Sonny agreed, so 6’5” Neighbor Man folded himself into the wagon whereupon Sonny brought him home then came back to the party with an empty wagon and a two dollar tip.

And there you have it.  THAT is who is in the liquor store in the middle of the day.  That Neighbor Man.

Well, and me.  Thanks for bringing that up.  So you can just shut it now.  And you know what else you can just shut it about?   That Flaming Dr. Pepper Shots thing from college.  I’m sorry I ever brought that up.

I’m a do-er.  Doin’ things.  Yeah, it keeps me busy.  So busy I haven’t had time to blog; What’s it to ya?!

(Jersey Girl will TELL you she’ll cut you in the parking lot…and then she’ll CUT you in the parking lot.  Do NOT piss Jersey Girl off.)

Mostly I’ve been busy buying a new car.  Because when you only buy a new car once every thirteen years, it takes some time.

First, I had to pray about it:

“Oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes-Benz?  My friends all drive Porches, I must make amends.”

Ha, ha, ha.  That wasn’t really me praying.  That would’ve been dumb.  That was me singing about Janis Joplin praying.  For a Mercedes-Benz.  Which was also dumb, because look where it got her.

No.  No Mercedes-Benz for me…but originally I did really, really, REALLY want a BMW.  That’s Beemer to you.

But when I test drove the much desired Beemer?  I was PISSED OFF!  Ratchet.  Beemer be total ratchet inside.  Which was annoying as all get out because I was ready to fall in wuv, twew wuv with you BMW.  But you blew it.  Also?  Beemer sales dude made us stand outside the whole time, no cozy chat around a rickety linoleum table for us.  Nope, we stood beside the running car we had been test driving when dude’s boss called him to tell him to come back.  What the WHAT?!?  Maybe he wasn’t actually a salesperson?  Maybe he was somebody’s little brother back at the dealership who took us joyriding with him until he got “caught.”  This might explain why he had no marketing material to give us on the car because they were “all out” of marketing material.  Really??  “All out” of marketing material for a car that costs fifty large?!?  Okey doke.  Then I guess you can be all out of ME as a customer.

Next stop, Lexus.  Which was slightly more impressive that Ratchet Town.  Especially that part where, before they even show you the car, they walk you through their amazing state-of-the-art spaceship and point out the 100 year old billiards table and the fully stocked coffee bar and the 60 person private theater.  Uhhh…what does ANY of this have to do with cars?!?  But if you had showed me where to get the free shots of Fireball?  I would have been yours for life.  Your bad.

Now, granted we were looking at more of a crossover and not at the big behemoth Lexus that costs more than my first house because A) I’m morally opposed to buying cars that cost more than my first house, and B) The rear lift gate on the big behemoth Lexus was created using a total dingdong design.  The rear lift gate – which opens to the SIDE instead of UP (like EVERY other rear lift gate on EVERY other car in the WORLD) – pretty much guarantees the rear lift gate will be sheared off the first time Sonny tries to put his baseball gear in the back.

So, no behemoth for us, but the interior of the crossover was very nice.  Until I sat in the driver’s seat and the ceiling knocked my sunglasses off my head.  Oh?  Wha’up with that!?  And when 6’4” Hubby sat in it after me, he looked like he was sitting in a Barbie jeep.  Only short stuff goes in your Lexus, Lexus?? 

Anyway, Nosy Parker wants to know what we ended up with.  Well I’ll tell Nosy Parker who will be sure to tell you: we ended up with an Acura.  Safety ratings blah, blah, blah.  And it goes super-fast so the cops can’t catch me when I’ve had too much Fireball.  Kidding.  Totally kidding.  Safety first.  And the interior’s nice…and tall.

Have you taken a look-see at any of those puzzling Matthew McConaughey commercials? I’m not 100% sure what he’s selling in them, but judging by the most recent one I witnessed, I believe he’s offering tours of his Texas ranch from the back seat of his car.

‘Ceptin during said tour, it seems like you’re gonna conveniently “run into” Matthew’s childhood bull named Old Cyrus. Old Cyrus was a fun 4-H project back when Matt was 13.  He was a blue ribbon winner in the Beef Cattle Category.  But Old Cyrus got hip to the jive and took off before Matt could sell him to the highest bidder.

And now? Now he just roams the ranch waiting for payback.  So whenever Matt meets him on the road, the bull makes him all anxious and sweaty as he’s sitting in the front seat of his car giving tours to people.  In addition to being all sweaty and whatnot, somethin’s up with Matt’s hair too.  But I’m not sure that has anything to do with Old Cyrus.

Anyway, Old Cyrus stands his ground during the tour and eventually Matthew will have to take you back to the ranch. Probably for more hemp and bongo drum solos.

You should buy this tour. But then skip the tour and just stay back at the ranch.  Otherwise you might be subjected to Matt’s disturbing hangnail as he drives you around in the front seat of his nifty car. (Matt will be in the front; You’ll be in the back.  Just wanted to clarify.)

And even if YOU were in the front and HE was in the back?  He wouldn’t be able to leave his hangnail alone.  He rubs it back and forth, round and round.

The motion he makes as he scopes out his hangnail is oddly reminiscent of Captain Queeg from the Caine Mutiny* when Queeg rolls marbles in his hand as he descends into madness. But that’s not what’s happening in this commercial.  Matt’s just got an annoying hangnail.

Yep, for sure buy this tour. But then maybe skip the tour and just stay back at the ranch.

*You read the Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk, right? It’s as dry as dust except for the parts where Queeg, the ship’s captain, slowly loses his marbles (heh, heh, pun intended).  It’s always fun reading about crazy ship captains.  And there are LOTS of crazy ship captains.  Let’s see…we have Captain Queeg with the marbles.  Captain Ahab from Moby Dick is pretty cray-cray too.  Hmmm.  Are there only two crazy captains?  Can’t be.  Maybe I’m also thinking of Cook?  Captain Cook was pretty nutso there at the end, wasn’t he?  I seem to recall something about walrus meat and lots of barroom brawls minus the barrooms.  And what about HOOK!?  Oh my gosh!  Let’s not forget Captain Hook!!  That’s as cracked as they come, what with his hook hand and all.  See?  Just give me enough time and I can always prove my point.  P.S.  Buy that tour Matt’s selling.  He’s not a crazy captain or anything.  He’s just a guy with a bothersome hangnail driving you in his car back to the ranch.

When the kids were in their midget-y phase, they used to watch this animated BBC show about a train called Chuggington, and all his trainyard friends.

In the particular version of the series my kids watched, the in-charge trains would give the new trains a bunch of tasks they had to complete by the end of the show…or DIE!!! Ha, ha, ha.  The BBC would never put on a show where trains died.  That’s dumb.  But what ISN’T dumb is a show where there are trains-in-training who have to get badges for every successfully accomplished training task.  (For the record, there were some close calls. Think crumbling suspension bridges and so forth; all very thrilling for midget-y folks.)  Once the trains-in-training earned enough badges they were called ‘scouts’ and turned into real boys and girls.

No, stop. Who knows what was really going on there.  What I mostly wanted to say about the show is that at the beginning and end of each episode, all the trains would get together and shout, “BAD PLAN, CHUGGINGTON!” Yes, that did seem odd.

Eventually, we realized they were yelling “BADGE QUEST, CHUGGINGTON!!!” Oh. That makes more sense.  But that’s what happens when a bunch of creepy, rolly-eyed trains shout together in unison about their Badge Quests.  It sounds like a Bad Plan.  Chuggington. 

So in our house, from there on in, anything that was clearly a bad idea from the get-go, receives a “Bad Plan, Chuggington,” verdict.

Sissy in IKEA jumping on a bouncy toy for the 2-and-under set that she shouldn’t have been jumping on because she’s…not 2-and-under? Hits it wrong and goes flying backward, lands on her rump, then proceeds to completely open-mouth wail in pain as she’s sprawled on the ground.

Yep. Bad plan, Chuggington.

Hubby carrying a metal bedframe, upright, into a bedroom where the ceiling fan is whirling? Strikes the ceiling fan like some accidental He Man, I have the POWER and shears off a blade-and-a-half from the fan which resulted in a fun, unexpected fan repair project (in addition to the bed repair project already underway).

Uh-huh. You got it.  Bad plan, Chuggington.

And just yesterday, I dropped Hubby and Sonny off at church for a pre-mass obligation of Sonny’s. I ran a quick errand then came back to find Sonny with one leg completely bloody from knee to ankle.

Hmmmm.

Turns out he quickly finished the thing he had to do, so while they waited for me out in front of church, Hubby chatted on his phone while Sonny did parkour all over the cement steps, planters, ramps etc. One step was a “bit higher” than Sonny expected and his foot got caught as he was leaping like a gazelle.  This resulted in an unexpected slam to the ground and subsequent three-foot skid borne almost completely by his right tibia.  Right before church.  Right in front of church.  Road rash much?

And indeed, you guessed it. Bad plan, Chuggington!

Sissy was recently invited to be on the Academic Decathlon team at her school. She’s pretty thrilled at the ask because, for the past several years, the team has placed first in regionals which then allows them to move on to the national competition in California. Actually, I’m a little vague on the “placing” details. I know they do really well and they went to Disneyland last year. But pay that no never mind. Sissy remains thrilled.  As are we, because that girlie is amazeballs.  But what really needs to be said here is: I am ROCKING my cosmic do-over!

This Friday will be the parent meeting wherein we will be reminded of how wonderful our respective mini-mes are. Also, we will be offered the opportunity to sign up to bring breakfast for one of the early morning study sessions. Parents are the cogs of this whole effort. Nothing wrong with being COGS. Cog, cog, cog. Does that word sound weird if you say it too many times? Cog. Cog. Yeah, weird, right?

Because – speaking of cogs cog, cog – while school administration and teachers are somewhat involved, a good portion of the breakfasts, effort and success of this thing rests on parents’ shoulders. Case in point, during this same Friday meeting, I believe the parents will be asked to commit to “small group instruction” in one of ten academic areas. I know, my heart just seized up at that.  Despite how well I’m doing with my cosmic do-over, you know I is afeared of certain…subjects.

Also?  Cog, cog. Cog. So weird.

But don’t worry about me! I plan to come fully prepared to the meeting and will offer to spearhead the group studying marketing or human resources since I have significant professional experience in each area and can speak from a real-world point of view.

If that’s a no-go, I will offer to teach crochet.

If the crochet idea flops, I will demonstrate my best shot-put form. Come ON! It’s a decathlon. Everyone knows success rests on the shot-put.

Epic fail on all of the above? I will break down in tears and beg them not to put me in math class with these kids.

Wait!! Look over THERE! WHAT’S THAT??! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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I bet you thought I forgot about you, but I haven’t. However, could you just remind me one more time what your name is? Ha, ha, ha. That’s funny “getting old and forgetting stuff” humor. But I’m not old, nor forgetful. Just funny. But when you get a chance, if you could tell me what your name is, that would be great. Thanks much.

It’s just that we’ve been busy on this end living our own Carbonaro Effect.

And in case you don’t know what the Carbonaro Effect is, “it’s a magic, hidden camera t.v. show” which is not only hilarious, but also totes cray-cray. People on the show suffer a total break from reality and begin to believe the impossible. Yep, that about sums up my life.

On the last episode I saw of the show, Carbonaro Effect Man is making three-foot-tall 3D vases with his 3D copying machine when his “new co-worker” [read sucker] talks him in to making a 3D copy of himself! Then, when Carbonaro Effect Man leaves to tell his boss what he did, the 3D “copy” of himself begins to move towards the “new co-worker” [read sucker] who screams and runs out of the room. I mean, because a WALKING 3D copy of a person seems totally reasonable and like it could actually HAPPEN, right?

Come on! CUT IT OUT!!!

Hey! Speaking of 3D copying machines…did you know that our local library has a 3D copying machine?!? Nope, I didn’t either. But you know who DOES know?? Sonny. Naturally.

How he found this out remains a complete and utter mystery to me. I only found out about it when I got the message from the library telling me the 3D print job we ordered was ready.

Uhhhh, what 3D print job? And who’s ‘we’ here??

When I asked around the house about 3D print job requests ordered from the library recently, Sonny claimed full responsibility.

Him: “Aww, yeah! COOL!!! I’ve been waiting for that. Can we go get it? NOW??”

Me: “I suppose. But if this is an artificial limb…or it costs money, I’m not doing this.”

Him: “No, no. It’s totally free. I talked to the library guy all about it.”

A couple of things here: “talked to the library guy” and “totally free” AND “3D print job” sound completely impossible. Carbonaro Effectish, if you will. Also, if the “totally free” thing IS actually true, then this explains why property taxes have gone up – because 6^th graders across the land are making 3D robots at the library. This is not a wise use of money. Or libraries. Or library guys’ time.

But sure enough, when we got there, Sonny and the Library Guy gave eachother a complicated Homie greeting.

HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?!??

Then Library Guy nods and disappears into the back room. The whole time he’s gone, I’m expecting him to reappear with a bill for ten THOUSAND dollars whereupon I’ll have to yell “RUN!” and take off for the car.

When he does come back, he slips something into Sonny’s hand and they do their Homie fistbumps again.

HOW IS THIS EVEN HAPPENING?!?? AM I ON T.V.??

Can you guess what it was? Can you even guess what Sonny ordered from the free (yes, it turned out to be completely FREE) 3D print job option at the library?!?

I’ll give you three guesses. Go!

Nope, it wasn’t a copy of himself…

Nope, it wasn’t an artificial limb… Did I read about this possibility in an article somewhere?

And nope to whatever your third guess was…

Ok, ok, I’ll tell you (but thanks for playing along with the three guesses in blogland, that was a good time). It was a…

BATARANG*!

*Do you know what a batarang is? Because I didn’t until the library printed a life-sized one up for Sonny, gratis (using taxpayer dollars). It’s a combo of ‘bat’ and ‘boomerang’ and is a bat-shaped boomerang that Batman, who is opposed to firearms due to the circumstances of his parents’ murder, uses to knock guns out of an assailant’s hand. HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?!?? Normally a batarang would be metal-colored. Sonny’s is bright blue because apparently that’s the only color free 3D print jobs come in at the library.  Can you see me on your t.v. screen NOW?!??

I got the call today.

The call I’ve been dreading my whole life.

While doing her homework, my 8^th grade daughter called from the kitchen, “Mawwwwwm! I need your help with this math problem.”

Guh…guh…guh. <—-That was me making that noise. Like my brain had been emptied by terror and no real words, only caveman noises, could come out. Chills swept up and down my spine. My scalp prickled and tightened to the point of pain. My bowels turned to water. I’m not even joking about this. My daughter is in Algebra 1 which is the most horrific x+y+z+WTF=hateful word problem b.s. I have ever been subjected to. SERENITY NOW!

So I go into the kitchen, walking all cocky and singing my Math Mom song. This is a fake-it-til-you-make-it strategy I learned from my tennis pro. Instead of staring across the court thinking, “S##T! I hope the ball doesn’t come to me!,” I’m instead supposed to picture that the ball IS coming to me; that I, in fact, WANT the ball; and that I have a definite plan for where I’m going to PUT the ball after I get it. My pro taught me that about tennis, I’ve translated the approach here for math purposes because trust me when I say, “Ooooh, I’d like to get my sweaty mitts on that Algebra and put it somewhere good, REAAAAAL good.”

The Math Mom song is all about how I love math; x+y+z is gonna go swell; Algebra rules. Yadda yadda yadda.  Clearly my version of: the Algebra is mine.  I want the algebra.  And when I get it, I’m gonna put it where the sun don’t SHINE!

Then I ask Sissy to “bring it” and she replies, “The sum of three numbers is 123. The second number is 9 less than two times the first number. The third number is 6 more than three times the first number. Find the three numbers.”

Whaaaat? What the WHAAAAAT?!?? Oh, snap, nuh-UH!!!

So I shout, “What’s THAT!?” and I point out the back door into the trees.

While Sissy is looking outside, I put my head down on the kitchen table and pretend to go to sleep. I don’t ‘wake up’ even when she pushes my shoulder.

And that’s how I solve for x+y+z.  It’s also how I funny algebra up a bit…because it definitely needs some funnying up.

Saturday afternoon, Hubby and I were sitting on the couch in the family room, when the dog – who we thought was sound asleep by the open sliding glass door – began to bark his fool head off.

It was the same sort of bark he gives when he corners a bubonic plague riddled prairie dog in our back yard. Or when he traps a suspicious short/shirt combo in the master bathroom. It was a something’s-not-right-here-but-I-can’t-tell-what-because-I-need-a-haircut-and-can’t-see-past-my-overgrown-bangs variety of bark.

So I walk around the corner of the family room and into the kitchen calling back to Hubby, “What a total dope! The dog’s barking at a baby carrot on the rug by the sliding glass door. But where did that carrot come from…HELP ME! HELP MEEEEEE!!! NO TEDDY! STAY AWAY!!!! NO! NONONONONO!! ALL THE PEOPLE WHO CAN HEAR ME, COME TO ME NOW AND HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! “

This is what the dog was actually barking at, which I at first mistook for a baby carrot that someone had randomly discarded on the floor after lunch.  (And yes, in our family, carrots randomly get discarded places, so this being a carrot on the rug was a distinct possibility.  Why do you ask?  Are random carrots NOT happening at your house?!?)

I know, RIGHT?! It LOOKS like a baby carrot – right color, right size – until you notice it has EYES!!! Big, freaky EYES!!! And as the dog was growing cojones and creeping closer during his barking session, it started to rear up in such a weird way that I was worried it was gonna start shooting venom at the dog’s face…or my face…or really the dog’s face.

I have NEVER seen anything like it before – unless you count that Discovery Channel special on impossible-to-believe google eyed caterpillars. And I seem to recall those caterpillars all know how to shoot flesh-melting venom out of their eyes when disturbed. (Ok, I may have made the flesh-melting venom thing up, but there WAS something mentioned about their eyes.  And in the heat of the moment, the venom seemed like a distinct possibility because the carrot-with-eyeballs was teetering on its back legs and rocking back and forth like a cobra being piped out of its basket. Why else would it be doing that?! That rocking thing??? If not to spray us with venom. HELP ME! PEOPLE WHO CAN HEAR ME, COME TO ME NOW AND HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! “

Hubby, one room over, was the last to arrive fyi. But he saved the day despite his late arrival. He chopped the carrot up* and we had it in a nice salad for dinner.

*PETA, Exotic Caterpillar Lovers and Lepidopterists: Ha, ha, ha.  I am completely kidding about the chopping up thing. Hubby actually had it climb onto his face and ate it directly instead of chopping it up. Ok, ok. Still kidding. He skewered it with a twig and fed it to the dog. Stop. It. Hubby coaxed it onto a stick and then placed it gently in a tree. And that’s the truth, pllllltttttt!