Oppa Bubba!

Loosely translated, it means "Up above the" as in "Up above the world so high," and it's Bird's cue that it's time to sing "Twinkle Twinkle" OR ELSE. Or else she will keep putting her arms up in the air and shouting "Oppa Bubba!" which, let's be honest, is pretty damn cute.

The Bird has been a little under the weather this week, thanks to the mingling of the Middle Tennessee germs with the Northern Indiana ones at the Christmas shindig last weekend. She's been sleeping in crazy late, and I keep thinking I'll stay home from work and we'll watch videos and snuggle up on the couch until she gets better, so I postpone my shower and do domestic things like fold laundry while she's sleeping until 8. But then she wakes up perky and mostly fine save for the snot, and we race around trying to get ready to leave the house. Trickster.

Snapshot of a Marriage, part something-something
Last night, I asked A. if the Christmas Tree needed water. He answered from the next room, "I took care of it." But what I heard was, "Ask Gary about it."
Which launched into a scenario about Gary Coleman's Tree Watering Service, where a customer would call up and ask, "Do you think my tree needs more water?" And Gary Coleman would answer, "Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mama Snee?"

Which reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas episodes of the Simpsons, where at the end of the episode Homer and Gary Coleman and Bart are standing around a pile of burning Funzos, and Gary Coleman comes over for Christmas dinner and delivers the sweet and sentimental holiday line to tie it all up: "Whatchoo talkin 'bout everybody."

You Totally Don't Want to Know This
Yesterday, I farted and it smelled totally not like a fart, but exactly like an old lady's house-- like musty furniture and chicken broth. And I've been eating neither!

It's, um, due to eating ONLY chocolate covered pretzels yesterday, out of the office stash. Didn't even eat my sandwich. Terrible gas. Don't try this at home, because your home will smell like knee-high pantyhose and twenty-year-old issues of Reader's Digest.

LOST
We've been renting it. Maybe I've told you that. But it's got me by the balls, for real. God bless DVDs and God bless Netflix. It's the only way I can watch a series of shows, and I can watch them every single night, so I don't have to retain much from one episode to the next.

Mental Health Memory Lane
One of my patients was standing in the parking lot in the torrential rain, waiting for her ride home from the center. Another staff person ran out and brought her back into my office to dry off and wait for her ride. She was about sixty years old at the time (and one of my all-time favorites), wearing no bra, thin polyester shirt, soaking freaking wet. She wanted to go back outside and smoke a cigarette on the covered porch, but I told her she looked like she'd been in a wet t-shirt contest and that she'd be giving everyone a show. She responded with, "OOooh! Can they see my furburger?" Furburger. From a sixty-year old woman who could crochet an afghan in two minutes flat.

In Two Days
My in-laws descend upon us. There will be many, many bags of chips.

In One Day
S. and her delightful husband and two fabulous boys arrive in our fair city, all the way from Freezing Ass Cold Spokane. Could not be more excited.

Mine Mine Mine
How do you other bloggers set up that "copyright 2006" business at the bottom of your blogs? Do you have to apply/ pay for that, or do you just throw it out there like some prospector gold-rush jig-dancer staking a claim? Please advise. Because you know there are people lurking out there just waiting to claim my old-lady-house farts as their own. Bastards.