Sharp Corners

As I sit here poised to tell some fascinating tale, filled with wit and hilarity, this is all that comes to mind:

"_________"

In fact, that straight line where words should be largely resembles my brain wave pattern right now. I am dysfunctional from lack of sleep, have carpal tunnel from too much typing, eyestrain from staring at my monitor and a permanent butt print in my desk chair since I’m never out of it for more than two minutes. But you didn’t tune in to hear that sort of nonsense, did you?

Tough. It’s all I’ve got. I’ve been busy.

No! Wait! There is something. When I last tuned into my blog, I wrote something up about a situation occurring here, only to have it eaten by TypePad before it got published. It was a long and winding story (because, really, am I ever anything but long and winding?) about the odd behavior of one of our hermit crabs. He had spent several days acting very strangely, running hither and yon around the tank, climbing over and around the food dish, water bowl, hide rock, fake log and extra shells. Their tank is decorated better than my first apartment. But I digress.

What started out as amusing a few days earlier had become genuinely concerning to me since it appeared that the crab was suffering some sort of breakdown. Imagine a crustacean on crack and you’ll have the general idea. He seemed to never sleep or settle down so I was beseeching my readers for help in getting a professional opinion (a vet or a crab therapist, either way).

Well, never mind. Yesterday I found little Chesterfield…um…claws up. Yes, dear readers, the ungrateful little shell-hopper up and died on me (well, not on me, that would have been icky). I don’t know if he offed himself or if it was natural causes. I don’t know if he went peacefully or if he had a great, shaking fit while drooling into his oversized claw first. He left no note.

Chesterfield will be missed. I guess.

Wanker is so predictable that I could probably time his next belch. Earlier this week I asked him to please give the children dinner before bringing them home. This, of course, didn’t happen because they "ran out of time." Knowing that he would most certainly not feed them, specifically because I’d asked him to, I planned in advance. The crockpot is my friend. It’s so much fun watching him try to upset me that I ought to sell tickets.

The kids returned from visitation relatively unscathed. Unless, of course, you count the sunburn that has reduced my youngest to tears. Or the fact that they report drinking so much Pepsi over the past three days that they all had stomachaches at one point or another (Son Three claims to have actually upchucked). Or the claims made by Son Two that he spent last evening doing nothing but fetching "a million beers from the fridge for Daddy." Or that their meals consisted of nothing but restaurant pancakes, restaurant grilled cheese and restaurant hot dogs for three straight days. Or that…well, you get the idea.

The good news is that Wanker managed to resemble a grown up during the drop off. He barely spoke, which was great because I prefer it when he’s incapable of speech (it’s so much easier on my ears, you know). Evidently, though, he learned nothing about promptness since the last time we met because he was late again. At least he had the good sense to be sheepish about it.

The best news, however, is that my boys are home. The tears they shed as Wanker pulled away were gone in the time it took for me to start the car and within minutes seconds they were laughing and talking about what we were going to do over the weekend. I spent the rest of the evening being bombarded by kisses, squashed by hugs and hearing, "I love you, Mommy" approximately nine thousand times. I don’t mind these little blips when our time together is interrupted because that’s just what they are. Blips.

Vegas, anyone?

BlogCritics and New Line Media have gotten together to promote the upcoming movie Wedding Crashers. New Line is sponsoring a contest and the Grand Prize is a trip for 4 to Las Vegas, hotel accomodations, dinner, a makeover, a gift basket and $1,000 cash. Cool, yes?

Since I helped put the contest together, I don’t feel that I should enter but don’t let that stop you. Have at it. Of course, should you win, you must take me.

Just so I’m totally clear about this: I have no personal or professional interest or stake in this movie or its associated contest. Plain and simple, I want to go to Vegas, I don’t think I should enter and I want you to win and take me along.

The boys will be home from visitation with their dad in just a few hours and I can’t wait. It’s anybody’s guess if Wanker will behave at the drop off or fling tire irons in my general direction to relieve some of the stress of…well, being him. We’ll see.

The boys have only been gone since Wednesday but I managed to cram in a few minutes of fun anyway. Yesterday, J took the day off so we went for a walk on the beach and choked on red tide for a while. After we’d had our fill of the stench of dead fish and the toxic fumes wafting off the water, we had lunch at (where else?) an ocean-side bistro. With the Red Hat Society ladies on one side (weirdness) and a view of children frolicking in the pollutants on the other, we were finally able to carry on an uninterrupted conversation. With J’s schedule being so hectic lately, I was sure he would fall asleep in the artichoke dip but he managed to stay vertical for the whole hour. After lunch, we toured a few extravagantly priced gift shops and galleries where I dutifully resisted the urge to spend $932 on a ceramic serving bowl in the shape of a fish.

Then we went home and napped.

Okay, we tried to nap but the roofers had other ideas. Now that Monster Hurricane Dennis is threatening to eradicate the shores of Florida, the roofing company decided that perhaps they ought to consider at least pretending to finish the job they started a mere two goddamn weeks ago. Just as we arrived home and assumed comfortable horizontal positions (with our clothing on, you pervs), along came a little pickup truck from which six guys emerged. What they did then was anybody’s guess but, whatever it was, it involved nail guns and lots of singing. Judging by the current state of my roof’s exposure, I’m pretty sure all they did was play a tape of hammers hammering and saws sawing while they sat in a circle up there and played Dominos.

After a few vain attmepts at getting some sleep we gave up and got ready for dinner with several of J’s co-workers. We went to a fantastic restaurant which served me Ahi Tuna that made my eyes roll back in my head and a bizarre shiraz called "Woop Woop." Seriously. I loved their food so much that I stole whatever I could scrape off J’s plate as well, mostly four cheese mashed potatoes and a nibble or two of steak. For as much pilfering as I did, I’m surprised J didn’t stab my wrist with his fork. After dinner, we stopped off for a drink with one of the other couples from dinner and finally ambled in around midnight. I think know I’m getting to old for such festivities because it’s currently 4:00 PM and I’m still not fully awake.

Now I’m just marking the time until the boys come home: two hours.

After we’ve all been trapped in the house the entire weekend while waiting for Dennis to finish menacing us, it will be up to you to remind me how much I missed them. Something tells me after 48 hours of "togetherness," I may have forgotten.