Yesterday afternoon, Jim looked over at me, and I could tell he saw it: my teetering on the edge of the pit. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
"Tacky lights," I told him. "Craft supplies from Michaels and a new strand of lights for the mantle."(I had an amazing, vintage strand; problem was, it did two different things at pretty much all times. Off and steady. Blinking and steady. Blinking and off. I could throw it on the rug and make it work right for a hot minute, but then it would return to its old tricks. Or new, unsatisfying tricks. Finally, I decided it was a fire hazard and threw it away.)
So we headed out. We visited the first address on the tacky-lights list, but then the GPS stopped working. Unfortunately, my cell phone isn't working either (The send button's broken!), so we were up a creek. We just kind of drove around aimlessly: saw Santa in a camper. It made me laugh because--if one were to replace the reindeer with a certain yellow mountain cur--that could be my dad poking his head out the camper door.
We saw Santa in an outhouse, too; I regret not taking a picture. Jim told Clementine: "Look, MeMe! Santa went in the outhouse to poop!" She laughed and laughed, which made us laugh. Poop is funny at all ages.
I got my craft supplies at Michaels, and then we went to Target to buy a strand of lights. I picked out an LED rope light. I thought I knew what I was doing; I didn't. My mantle looks terrible. The ten vintage Santas up there look, suddenly, like they're conducting a science experiment under florescent lights.
One funny thing happened in Target: we came across a rack of ENORMOUS boys' pajamas...one-piece and fleece, with feet. I started laughing because I made Cade wear those pajamas until he was, like, six. He was so excited when I could no longer find them in his size, and there they were, in Target: boys' pajamas with feet, size 12. I almost bought him a pair just so I could witness the extreme horror on his face in unwrapping them. I was so happy at the thought that Jim, I know, would've let me buy them.
But I didn't because--hello!--I need a new GPS and cell phone! (Have I ever told you: it's cassettes or nothing in my sexy 1998 minivan?) I don't need to be wasting money on pajamas that Cade will never wear. Too bad I wasted money on a cardboard house, at Michaels, that my daughters ripped in half in less than 5 minutes.
Cade just read this post over my shoulder and laughed. I'm glad he thinks I'm funny.
When he was reading about Michaels, he asked: "Mom what's the difference between art and crafts?"
And I said: "Eh, I think art is more dignified. Like, crafts are about popsicle sticks and shit." Then we both cracked up in shock because I'd accidentally said "shit." See? Poop is funny at all ages. It dawns on me: I've blogged about poop at least nine times, so I'm going to start a new, poop category with this post.
I have more happy things to share, but they're from my sacred Sunday, so I'm going to post them separately from the poopy things. In the meantime, thank you for your prayers. I am fighting for joy.