Great news on the Johnny front! His earholes are totally free of pus, and his eardrums have completely healed.
Hey, you little fucker, you can't pretend you don't hear me anymore, can you.
Funny story from tonight...we were all laying around like a pile of puppies, watching a Western, and I suddenly noticed two things: it was past 10pm, and the show was two parts, and didn't end until midnight or so.
So, I set it to tape, clapped my hands, and ordered them to go full speed into their 'night-night' ritual. You know, teeth brushing, pottying, the application of PJ's and such.
Oh, Nat completely fell out. Johnny had been emitting jaw-cracking yawns for a while, and was more than happy to disengage the target and head for his bunk. Nat, on the other hand, acted like I was trying to pound live Mexican scorpions up her ass.
Oh, the drama.
And she had eaten her own weight in pizza. Had dessert. And two glasses of milk. And she wanted a snack. In the worst way.
And by 'worst way', I mean wouldn't allow that sort of torture at Gitmo way. Oh, the drama.
The wife got her upstairs (Nat had hopped for awhile like an autistic kangaroo...I am sure we appear on an epicenter map somewhere) and she began ululating like an Arab mother who has just sent her son off to blow up some Jews.
Well, Nat thought she was serious.
She took a breath to continue, and I hollered cheerfully to her from downstairs "Honey, I really like that song...could you sing it again for me?" and the air-raid siren cut off in mid squall.
She shut up just to spite me.
The wife came back downstairs, looking some frazzled, and collapsed on her couch (we have two couches...I hog mine). I told her that I bet Nat is already face down, unconscious, in a puddle of her own spit. And you know what?
I was right.