I'm over at MidCenturyModernMoms today, begging people to explain how to let my teen daughter indulge in Facebook safely. There have been some pretty helpful comments, too; so any of you wondering the same thing (I mean, about your teenager, not mine, of course) should check them out.
And someone from Glencoe, Illinois, has practically been living on my blog the last few days. I don't mind, but would it kill you to comment? I feel used.
I'm late posting because I made the mistake of asking Larry to ignite the pilot lights on our 2 gas fireplaces tonight. Well, I more than asked - I threatened to try to do it myself tomorrow, because his sister is coming to visit in 2 days and I know she will not enjoy sleeping in a 58-degree basement (albeit on a brand-new Ektorp sofabed). Not wanting to come home from work to find our house blown up, Larry tackled the job this evening.
You would think it would be easy, wouldn't you? Like, maybe an on-off switch should do the trick?
No. That would be too simple, and it wouldn't provide divorce lawyers with any clients. Instead each fireplace has a big plastic card covered with complex instructions interspersed with dire warnings of what might happen if one does not follow said instructions precisely. So our evening consisted of such scintillating conversation as, "Are you sure that's safe?" and "Hold the glass up! I said, hold it up!" and "Do you smell gas? I smell gas."
This was not quality relationship time. And the children learned a few new words.
Have I mentioned this is his sister who's visiting?