Random bits on life, our universe, and everything.
1.) Because I’m married to the Man, I am contractually obligated to make the joke “May the fourth be with you.” An additional requirement seems to be that I go see Avengers tonight. And possibly pick up comics at Free Comic Book Day on Saturday.
This deal keeps getting worse all the time.
2.) Bonus points if you get the above reference. We say it a lot around here.
3.) The Maiden got stung by a bee for the first time. Except that it wasn’t a bee after all. Apparently the teacher was overwhelmed by the Maiden’s panic attack (“I’m not going to say you know how she can be hysterical, but . . . you know how she can be hysterical” was the comment, I believe), and we all assumed it was a bee–to which the Maiden could possibly have been highly allergic.
Later she fussed so much about its non-bee-ish-ness (“Come ON Mommy, bees don’t have HORNS!” howled my budding entomologist) that I had her draw a picture and we spent a while field guiding out the truth. Turns out it was some kind of borer beetle. The kind that only bites trees.
That’s what happens when your kid goes vegetarian, y’all.
4.) I finished my last ballet class of the year . . . and immediately signed up for a summer jazz/hip hop class to
ensure I escape from the house once a week broaden my horizons. The Maiden’s also taking jazz for the first time this summer, so maybe we can compare notes.
5.) The Maiden and I made 32-bean soup from a mix, and then afterward we shook the rest of the package onto the table and really did count out 32 different types of beans. Actually, more like 31 types of beans plus barley, which–sorry, Whole Foods–is definitely not a bean.
Come to think of it, there were three types of lentils in there too, and a lentil is not a bean, either–it’s a pulse. I know that “28-bean soup” doesn’t sound nearly as cool, but seriously? I feel gypped.
6.) Next week is going to be insane. The Maiden’s in two dance recitals on the 12th–one for ballet and one for tap–and she has rehearsals almost every day. Squeezed in the middle of that will be my 33rd birthday. “That’s the age Jesus died at,” my loving husband informs me.
Pfffft. He’s just jealous because he’s 34.
Have a great weekend!