more chip dips

The infamous WOW BALL of our soon-to-be-sweeping-the-nation game of the same name.

I can make Chip laugh himself silly anytime I say to him, "Have a delightful meal." This is what an Arby's employee said to us sometime last year as he handed us our bag of heavily fatty fried food. Delightful! We've theorized that the dude was either some Super Vice President General Manager of Arby's or he'd lost a bet.



Chip and I have been playing a game we're calling Wow Ball, where we sort of ridiculously ping-pong this 6-inch diameter ball back and forth to each other. It is the kind of thing that actually makes you feel, um, PROUD for the skill involved. When really, there is no skill involved at all. It is two full-grown adult humans sitting on a colored mat madly patting a small ball back and forth to each other. When Chip pointed out how silly the game was (as he naturally continued to carry on his side of the mad ball swatting)---- I told him to stuff it. I am a stay-at-home mother whose conversation partner is a 14-month-old cavetoddler (total range of vocabulary at last count: five words, and that's stretching it). Furthermore, anything that gives me a Sense of Great Accomplishment and Skill that doesn't involve poop or other bodily fluids is a WIN in my book. We will continue playing Wow Ball. Maybe one day there will be some rules. Next stop: Olympic Wow Ball.



I have our DVR record Lost every week. Do you know how many episodes of Lost our DVR has recorded this year? Zero. Because we still don't have ABC. Chip is mystified by my continued taping of a show that doesn't come on. We get a blue screen and a bunch of words to the effect of SORRY SUCKERS YOU STILL DON'T HAVE ABC AND WE'RE GOING TO QUADRUPLE YOUR MONTHLY RATE WHEN THE DAY DOES COME THAT WE EVENTUALLY CAVE AND SIGN BACK ON WITH ABC. I tell Chip, "I have faith. Our DVR has faith. We will be able to watch Lost on our television once again." Chip says, without an ounce of sarcasm, "AND GLORIOUS WILL BE THAT DAY."



If I don't talk about the fact that I've been feeling like a sore-throaty runny-nosed sick person, maybe it will all just go away. What do you think?



Speaking of feeling like death on toast, two nights ago Chip and I had one of those nights that lasts for days and days and days. Can someone explain this to me? You know the kind of night where you fall asleep at 10 and wake up and you're quite sure that it's at least 3am but when you look at the clock it's only 11:37. You drift back to sleep and then wake up twenty minutes later with the words from the Belly Button Book going through your head on a maniacal repeat button. Later, you wake to the sound of your husband rooting around a drawer in the bathroom, apparently removing every medicine bottle and then shaking the contents for the sheer joy of it (rattle-rattle-rattle-SHAKE-SHAKE-SHAKE-rattle-rattle-rattle-SHAKE-SHAKE-SHAKE). Finally you hear him mutter triumphantly, clutching a small white packet of Ibuprofen. He comes and shows the little treasure to you, as you try to smile helpfully--- YES, IBUPROFEN, you say. CANYOUCOMEBACKTOBEDANDTURNOFFTHELIGHTKTHANKSNIGHT. As your husband gets to his side of the bed you hear another mutter, notsotriumphant and a little, um, MAD, "Well that's just great. It expired in 2005." You suggest that he check downstairs, dreaming of dancing bottles of leggy Ibuprofen. It is 1am. Your husband is back upstairs ten minutes later, holding a very large bottle of Tylenol. Annnnnnnd back in bed. Eyes close until you wake up again: Belly Button Book. And again: more BELLY BUTTON BOOK. And again: this time because your husband is trying to pull a blanket off the bed - a blanket that is being anchored to the bed by two sleeping cats and your right leg. Eyes close as your husband mutters, "I'm going downstairs." You allow your face to mimic sleeping, hoping the rest of your body will get the memo. Whisper "goodnight" to husband's retreating form. Also, "Try not to turn the TV up too loud. Please don't cook any chili." It is 4am. You wake an hour later: WE HIPPOS LOVE OUR BELLY B'S. At 6 you wake up to your husband getting back into bed. You settle in for forty-five more minutes of sleep, the best of the night, until your baby girl wakes at 7, calling DA-deeeeee, DA-deeeeee. You let your husband sleep and you start your day.

A night kinda like that. Why why why between earth and heaven do these nights always happen when you're on the newish cusp of a cold with the itchy horrible ouchy sore throat? WHY?



And with that, Whimsy out.