- Nail clippers always dash away to top secret retreats for grooming tools. They never stop to ask me first whether the timing is convenient, whether they could do anything for me before they leave, or if they'll be missed. They simply vanish. I swear they are laughing at me, knowing how I'll search through the house for them- in the bathroom cabinet where they're supposed to be, in the bathroom drawer where I sometimes hide them, and on the key holder where I stash my own, top secret pair. Currently, every single nail clipper known to the Hildebrands is missing. My nails are longer than a millimeter, which makes me feel filthy and unkempt. Possibly whore-ish. Probably not, but still, the possibility exists.
- Nose piercings have a bit of an odour. I'm only telling you this because I trust you and want you to be forewarned if you ever decide to pierce your nostril to spite your mother for not allowing you to have pierced ears when you were a teen-ager. Not that I would ever do that, but I've heard of some really bad kids who run around in the grass in white socks as adults, just to get back at their mother for complaining about laundry. I've even heard about people who crochet on Sundays to spite their mothers who always told them that needlework was work, and work on the Sabbath is a sin.
- Stuff is way easier to buy than it is to sell. This is a strange truth.
- There is a possibility of a snow storm tomorrow. I am not happy about this. While most people rejoice in school cancellations, I do not. I work at home, and when school is cancelled, it means that I will be taking my husband and three offspring to work with me. If you pump gas, imagine your spouse and children following you around at work and getting in your way and on your nerves. If you do heart surgery, imagine your spouse and your children making snacks and spilling ketchup all over your instrument tray while you're trying to reach your scalpel. Then feel my pain.
- My dad tells the same stories every Sunday. Every now and again, he'll let a new story slip, and that's always a super exciting Sunday for me. But for sure I know that he has a "part of grade seven education" and always wanted to have more; that he worked in Thunder Bay as a young adult, and would have gone back if it were not for his parents bribing him with farm land to stay put; I know that when he was a little boy, his grandpa held him on his lap and said; "Abie, Abie. Whatever will become of you? Maybe a fiddler, but never a farmer!" and that each autumn when my dad turned his great big combine to maneuver around the graveyard where his granddad rested, he imagined if grandpa could raise his head up above the grave and see him now! I know those stories for sure, and if I begin to forget, I have next Sunday to look forward to. Today he let a tiny little bit of a new story out, and it even contained sort of a bad word. I took an irreverent amount of pleasure in this. I really love my dad more now that the stroke has loosened him up and made him a little more uninhibited. It's like he's being himself now, and not worrying so much about being a good example, or "doing the right thing". He's just being real, and I kind of like real.
That means I have to stop or I'm a liar, and nobody likes a liar.