Now, I know I said this before, but this time I really mean it. I’m getting to the funny part. Stick with me, kids.

Logically, after he’s told me how to get the spinnaker up, the next thing to explain is how to take the spinnaker down. The skipper says a bunch of things and then tells me, “Then the person on the foredeck will say, ‘Blow the guy.’”

To which I said, “I’m sorry. Come again?”

“Blow the guy,” he repeats. “It means let the guy go.”

“I see.”

“Blow the guy,” he nods.

“Right. Blow the guy.”

And at that point, all I wanted in this world was to fly the spinnaker, hold that line, and then blow the guy so that I could write a post titled, “In which I blow the guy.” It has taken months of waiting, MONTHS. But at long last, my dreams have been fulfilled. Oh yeah, I blew the guy last week. Several times, actually.

For instance, Quinn just jumped onto the carseat that’s currently residing in the living room (don’t worry about why, it’s not important). Upon doing this, Quinn said, “Quinn jumped onto the carseat!” This happens all the time. Now she is lying in the carseat, which is lying on its back as is she in it, so her legs are up in the air, and she’s trying to right herself using her abs alone, and as she tries to get up, she is saying, “She’s trying to get up, but she can’t.” Is she saying this to someone in particular? No. No, she isn’t. She’s just narrating her life.

Quinn also likes to speak in quotations, and what I mean by that is she pretends that her words are encased in punctuation and in need of narrative description. Frequently, I hear things like, “‘I’m so happy, Mama,’ Quinn said.” Also, “‘That’s funny!’ Quinn laughed.”

I don’t want to give you the false impression that Quinn only narrates the good times. She often mutters with a scowl, “Quinn is not happy.” Likewise, tantruming is not enough for Quinn. It is better to throw the toy while saying, “Quinn got angry and threw her toy!”

I can’t decide if Quinn will be an author herself, or if she simply expects that a book (or books) will be written about her. I know she’s young and has time to refine her technique, but if she does choose to go the author route, we’ll have to have a discussion about showing vs. telling. For instance, when she glares at me with daggers shooting from her eyes, I really don’t require the additional narration: “Quinn doesn’t like you very much.”

Elsie has been fascinated with the arctic for a while, so this is what her birthday wish list consists of:

Snow
Ice
Icebergs
Ice floes
Water

For her birthday. In AUGUST.

I like to think that my shopping expertise has enabled me to come through for the kids on their birthdays, but I checked amazon, and well…

Considering our relationship with the old toilet, what I was focused on at the hardware store was a toilet that was rated the highest for flushing power. I saw a five star rating next to one and proclaimed it to the be toilet for us. Paul loaded it up on the cart, and off we went.

It wasn’t until after Paul had installed it that I noticed its height. It was tall. A closer look at the box revealed that was an ADA approved toilet. Oh well, I thought. It probably doesn’t really make much of a difference.

As it turns out, the height does make a difference. Majka’s feet no longer touch the floor when she’s perched up there, and I can only get my toes down. But really, the most awesome part is that the toilet is A) on the second floor and B) our staircase is THE STEEPEST STAIRCASE IN THE WORLD. Seriously, you almost have to climb our staircase like you climb a ladder. There is NO WAY a disabled person is going to make it up to use this toilet.

Live and learn. Now I know to check for flushing power and that ADA insignia.

At least it flushes like a champion! And we’re moving anyway. Huzzah!

Janice: Hi there! Whatcha doin’? Painting your house?
Sonja: [eyes deadened] What?
Janice: Are you painting inside your house there? You know, paint? With a brush? On the walls probably?
Sonja: Oh. Yeah. I am doing that.
Janice: How’s it going?
Sonja: All my energy is going towards not asking that question.*
Janice: Okay. When did you start painting?
Sonja: Well, we bought the house on June 24. I think it was the next day or the day after that.
Janice: Are you on schedule?
Sonja: On schedule. No. I don’t think so. I vaguely remember thinking we could paint the entire interior of the house in a few days, a week at the most.
Janice: June 24 was three weeks ago.
Sonja: Right.
Janice: But you’re probably almost done now.
Sonja: No. Out of the seven rooms we want to paint, we’re done with 2.5 of them. Except that none of them are all the way done. We just don’t care enough anymore to finish them all the way.
Janice: Oh. Well, how much longer do you think you’ll need?
Sonja: Forever.
Janice: Excuse me?
Sonja: Forever. I came to that realization late last night, as I kind of finished the smallest room in the house after three days of working on it every spare second I had. Then I looked down the hallway at all the other, much bigger rooms, and I knew: I would never finish. I will be painting this house forever.
Janice: Okay then. Well, thanks for your time. I don’t think this is the kind of interview our readership wants to read, though.
Sonja: Who?
Janice: You know, the people who read our magazine.
Sonja: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Janice: I’m going to go now. Congratulations on your new house!
Sonja: [blank stare]

* I totally stole this line from Chandler from first episode of season 8 of Friends.

Now that I’m done laughing (yet again), I’ll get back to the anniversary at hand. It’s been eight years since we got married and eleven years since we started dating. That’s nineteen years! Wow! In some ways, it doesn’t seem that long. In other ways, it’s seemed a lot longer. But I digress.

I would like to post a nice photo of us looking all happy, like I did here, but rather than glistening with happiness, we’re both currently glistening with illness. So instead of posting a photo of our haggard faces, I drew a “glistening with happiness” picture to share instead.

This is how we feel on the inside.

Happy anniversary, sweetie!

Don’t you wish YOU had Paul’s babies?

Misery
I hear tell of people who continue to do things with temperatures – high temperatures, which to me are anything 100 degrees or over. I say that these people are crazy. CRAZY. The only thing to do when you have a fever is alternate between whimpering pathetically and trying to make everyone else feel as miserable as you do.

Miracle
Advil is the elixir of life. It has magical powers. How else could a tiny little orangy-reddy pill quell A FIRE. Seriously, it’s even the color of fire, but it can defeat it! I love Advil!

OMMFG it’s hot
It is so g**d*mn hot. Why, god, why? Why is it 103 degrees outside? Why must my internal temperature match the outside temperature? Oh please, for the sake of all that is good in this world, could you push the sun back just a smidge? It’s really too close to the earth. I am HOT and there is no relief to be found anywhere. My feet feel like they are on fire. Seriously, I think flames will soon be erupting from my toes. I do not need any blankets. Why are there blankets? Blankets are the stupidest things in the world. I banish them! BEGONE!

Holy crap, it is cold
I’m freezing. Where are all the f***ing blankets? What are you giving me? Some sort of cotton quilt? That is b*lls**t! Bring me something filled with m****r-f***ing down! I don’t care what you have to do! Go down to Kelly Drive and kill some geese if you have to! You might not even have to kill any of them. There’s usually a few dead ones in the road. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? I am SHIVERING!

Useless
Why are you giving me this little, turd colored pill? Advil is my fever’s b**ch now. Don’t insult my fever with that little piece of crap. Get that bottle away.

Death
I’m ready now.