More?

Chris and I have been teaching baby Cash a few words in sign language.  He's been catching on quite well but struggles with the word 'More'.

After a few bites of dinner and an empty plate, I lean over, smile, and say ,"More?" while pushing my fingers together.

He stares silently, smiling.

"More?" I say as I try again demonstrating with my hands.

He's still smiling.  Unmoving.


Frustrated, I tell Chris, "I don't understand why he's not getting it.  He's getting every other sign."


A few days later I pull out his dinner at home, serve him a few bits, and when he's done, I sign 'More'.

Radio silence from that boy... but he's got a grin on his face.

I cleaned off the table, did the dishes, and scooped myself some ice cream.  Cash and I share a few bites while watching a Baby Einstein video and as I'm putting away the bowl, he frantically runs over and starts signing 'More'.


And that's when I figured it out.  It's not that he doesn't know the sign...

My cooking is so awfully atrocious, he doesn't want 'More'.


Cash - 1.  Me - 0.

Burning Down the House...

We came home from our camping trip to a house full of fleas.  Apparently the sand we had delivered for the playset was loaded with them and our dogs brought them inside.  I've never had to deal with fleas before so naturally, I calmly assessed the situation, did some research on flea abatement, and controlled the problem.

Well, that's the way I say it went.  Chris describes it a bit differently.  He said I went a little crazy.

I started off by screaming.

That's always my first line of defense against home invaders, small or large.

Then, I sent Cash to my mother's to protect him - from me or the fleas, I can't be sure.  From here, well, it gets a little foggy... maybe because I set off 16 flea bombs in the house.    When they say one per room, they mean it.  You shouldn't put two... cough... or three... in one room.  Shouldn't.  That doesn't mean I didn't.

Every sheet, towel, comforter, and bit of clothing was drowned in a piping hot wash.  My house has never been so Tide fresh.

I bought two industrial bags of diatomaceous earth and we blanketed the carpets.  Chris donned his construction gas mask and ran around the house pretending a nuclear bomb hit.

Funny guy.

Real funny.


I vacuumed.

And vacuumed.

And vacuumed.

For DAYS.

As Chris watched me remove yet another vacuum cleaner bag, put in a plastic trash bag, and duct tape the top closed, he said, "I'd hate to see what you'd do with bedbugs.  You'd probably burn down the house."

I looked at him seriously and said, "That's an option?"




There are no more fleas in the house.  OK, sure, the chemicals caused me to sprout a third arm and there is now a cancerous growth on my leg, but the fleas are gone.

I win.

My Fantasy League...

Chris convinced me I needed to join my family's Fantasy Football League.  Last year, Chris, my brothers, and sisters spent most of the season sending text messages leading up to and during football games.  Chris' phone would buzz and "SUCK IT!  YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE SUCKA" would scroll across the screen.

Well gee.  As fun as that sounds.

I decided to join... even though my only knowledge about the players is how cute the Kansas quarterback is.

Chris had to draft my team.  I had tried to pick players based solely on their hotness factor but Chris said that wasn't an indication of their abilities.

Says who?

He drafted the Steelers defense and suggested the Cardinals for my bye week.  "I thought the Cardinals were a baseball team." I said.

Chris just stared at me and sighed.

He 'skillfully' set my active and bench players and said, "It'll be fun babe.  You'll see!"

Game time.  I excitedly open the app on my iPad and watch my score...

30.

My opponent? 160.

It got better.  I jumped to 120... just before he jumped to 323.

I should have followed my gut and drafted on the hotness factor.  Educated guessing?  Not working.