De Ja Vu of the stupidest kind

Hey, Peeps.

Do me a favor. Just a little one.

Point out the crosswalk in this photo.

What, no crosswalk? Alright. Can you show me the crosswalk in THIS photo?

Say what now? There isn't a crosswalk here, either?

MY EFFING POINT EXACTLY.

There is no flipping crosswalk. SO WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!

I'm holding up TWO fingers. But this accurately conveys my opinion of that 

ass-hat parking enforcement butthole who gave me another freaking ticket.

I need to go. I need some chamomile tea, some Ibuprofen and I need to go lie down.

I also need this to stop.

Kool Aid is for Closers

While my daughter's Girl Scout Troop didn't create this, I wish they had. Because it is both true, and awesome.

The sassy blonde? TOTALLY MY KID.

Well, no, but it looks like her. Acts like her. Maybe she has a twin I don't know about.

The Good Love

I decided today that confidentiality-schmentiality, I'm sharing a story.

(I can't get arrested for this, can I? I refuse to be a repeat offender. I AIN'T GOIN' BACK)

And it's not funny, so don't even bother waiting for the punch line. I thought about writing it with humor, but decided against it. I took notes while I was listening to this story (because I AM that big of a dork) and tried to keep it as close to how it was told as possible.

This did not happen to me, but for ease of writing, I am going to tell it in first-person point of view. I'm kind of paraphrasing here, but please know that at one point this story will get a little gross and there is the appearance of fecal matter. Well, not LITERALLY. But you will read about it. As some of you know, I can't really handle talking about, thinking about, or even looking at p-o-o-p. But I will. This one time, because this story is worth it.

I was at WinCo a few years ago doing some shopping. I had to wash my hands, so I went to the restroom.

When I entered the restroom, I heard this tiny, pitiful little voice saying, "Help me. Hellllp."

I called Hello? and checked under the stall doors. In the smallest stall there, I found a woman huddled on the floor. She had to be like, eighty five years old. And there was some sort of explosive diarrhea situation because her skirt was covered in it. So I crawled under the stall and helped her remove her skirt.

I took the skirt to the sink where I wrung it out (storyteller's words, not mine!!) and helped her get dressed again. I asked her whom she was shopping with and she told me her husband Randy was in the check-out lane. I told her that I would go get him and everything would be okay.

I had this great plan where I would go find her husband, tell him what happened and I was going to help them and they would be fine. In my head, I had this idea.

So I found Randy in line and I told him, "Hi Randy. Your wife is fine, but she had an accident in the ladies room. Don't worry; I helped her out and then she asked me to find you. Why don't you go ahead and go through the checkout lane and when you're finished, you can go and get your car. I'll wait with your wife and we can meet you outside."

Here I was thinking I had this great plan, they would get their groceries, I would hang out with the wife and kind of help her hide her skirt because, you know, it was um, really stained with [redacted. Seriously. I don't use that word]. I didn't want her to be embarrassed.

I was in for a surprise because the husband said, "No." And I was like, "Um. What now?"

Then he said, "Take me to my wife. Please. Right now. I need you to take me to her."

So I did. I led him over to where I had stashed her, because I didn't want her to be embarrassed about her clothing.

The husband walked up to his wife, put his arm around her, and just held her. She leaned against him, stained clothing and all, and then they just left their groceries and walked out of the store.

He didn't care about his groceries. His priority was his wife. She needed him, and he was there for her. He didn't care about her stained and dirty clothing that was swishing around him, she didn't care that everyone could see that she had, very obviously, had an accident. 

That's real love right there.


And while I never want to have that exact situation ever, EVER happen to me, I hope that someday I have a love like that.

Because that's the good stuff.

My Day in Court

How was my day in court, you wonder?

What do you think. 

Not exactly the happy face of Justice now, is it?

I am a good citizen. I pay taxes. I help unfortunate people and I try to be nice to people when I would rather punch them in the throat. I follow the rules. Well... there was that one time I sneaked into a Dave Matthews concert through the wheelchair access door while wearing a medical alert bracelet that I technically did not deserve, but that doesn't really tie in to this story.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for running around like an idiot and having a fine old time, but I do it within the confines of the law. Partially because I was raised in a black and white world where wrong was wrong and right was usually wrong as well. But mostly, because I have this conscience that will nag me to death if I ever try to do anything shady. And I'm also scared to death of policemen. They're intimidating. And usually hot (I've only been pulled over like, five times and all of those times were by guys fresh from the academy and plus I was like, 19 years old then so it's not gross).

I may or may not have done something that required my presence in a court of law today.

I decided to at least look like a contributing member of society when attempting to defend myself, so I threw on some kind of frilly thing with a pair of boots because I couldn't find my hooker heels and I set off in the disgusting rain to have my day in court.

I arrived thirty minutes early, because I am almost never prompt, and entered the courthouse. Where I came face to face with three elderly security guards and what I think was a hobbit, but I couldn't really tell because more importantly, just beyond those guards was my nemesis. The Metal Detector.

Dammit.

Maybe this is a good time to mention that I have sort of a problem with metal detectors.

Like... every time I go through one I end up getting a whole body scan/pat down/HIVES because I always set the damn thing off.

One time, Elle and Gary and I flew to Europe and I kid you not, every SINGLE TIME we went through security we were held up. I'm not sure if I ate a lot of metal as a kid, or what was going on. I just know that it's not cool to have your body groped by strangers.

Of course, I set off this freaking detector so I basically had to remove everything except my shirt and my skirt while freezing to death in the drafty doorway as the 900 year old attendant scanned me from head to toe. Mind you, I'm 5'10 and this guy was about 5'1. I had to do that awkward hunch thing so he could scan my neck. Which I thought was unnecessary. It's not like I half-swallowed a knife and was just waiting till I got around the corner before I yakked it up and shanked someone

I grabbed my coat and keys and purse and shoes and booked it to the second floor, which was deserted. Sweet. Never been in a courthouse before, except actually that exact courthouse once before so I guess I just lied, and there was no one to help and I really just knew I was going to go to jail. Because I was lost.

Oh, heeeeyyy, what's THAT? I said to myself. A giant screen with felons listed. Oh. Wait. There was my name. Room 2. Alright. Where is that? WHY ARE THERE SO MANY COURTROOMS? What kind of a town is this that there are so many criminals out there?!

I found the right door and peeked into the room just as the judge made an angry face, papers flew and the guy standing in front of her jumped back a foot and tripped over a chair.

Oh, dear God. I am going to die today.

I slipped through the doors where a GIANT SIGN instructed me to take a number. You walk into court and take a number? What is this, a fabric store?

Perhaps I jinxed myself by wearing black and white because as soon as the judge saw me walk into the courtroom, I wear I saw her mouth JAILBIRD and raise an eyebrow.

It got even better when three people in front of me had the exact same issue I did and the judge basically told them to eff off and sent them on their way to Guantanamo Bay or something.

My turn.

I stepped up to the podium and listened while the judge read off my offense in a big giant number code.

I was so totally set to pour my heart and soul into my defense and just got started about how I was at LEAST five feet away when the incident occurred...

Until the photographic evidence came out.

Oh, shit. Um. Funny, that's not how I REMEMBER it.

Well, did I not say to Rawr immediately after the incident, "I'M IN A PHOTO CLASS. HOW DO I NOT HAVE MY CANON WITH ME TO PROVE MY INNOCENCE?! WHERE IS A CAMERA WHEN YOU NEED ONE?!"

Looks like law enforcement carries a camera.

Me: "Um, I know the photos look bad-"

Judge: No. The photos look great. It's you who seems to be in a pickle.

Me: Well, yes. I see that now.

Judge: Five feet?

Me: [eyeing the photos] Um. Maybe not exactly five feet.

Judge: You could not be any more on top of that if you crawled up into it.

Ew? Okay, mental picture. Gross.

Me: Well, I don't really think that's very-

Judge: Nope. I'll cut your fine in half. Because really, this is just embarrassing for you. In the future, Ms. Oneto, keep five feet from any driveway.

Yes, this was for a parking ticket. It's not like I was brandishing a weapon.

Our justice system is broken.

Migration Stall

Hey, remember last May when The League sneaked over into my neighbors yard at midnight and screwed with his flock of plastic birds?

Rawr and I may have gone back and "borrowed" these.

Me. The night of the Forced Migration.

Be honest. It looks like I'm flipping off the camera, doesn't it?

Like, six months ago.

It was meant to be all in good fun. We were going to set up a Flamingo Rescue Station in my front yard with a wading pool and plastic palm trees, only we sort of dumped the flock on the back patio and immediately forgot about them.

This is what they look like presently. I never said it was a 5-star resort.

In hindsight, I suppose it's better we never returned them because the neighbor we "borrowed" them from turned out to be severely anti-social and is never home, anyway. And when he is... I dunno. I kind of get a serial-killer feel when I see him. Maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's his ripped up blinds in his upstairs window that gives the impression someone died in there, but not before trying to claw their way out. Hm.

I got tired of looking at this pitiful pile of pink (heh. Say THAT five times fast!). So I stopped going out onto my patio. What. Rawr and I meant to go dump them back on his lawn, it's just... well. We forgot.

Now you know why we stole rescued them in the first place.

Except it seems as though I provided similar living conditions.

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

Question is: What do you think we should do with them?

White Elephant Christmas Gift

Coffee just tastes better this way.

I was just going to post the photo to Eloquence's Facebook page, but my half-hearted attempt to block out the swear words wasn't all that effective. Probably because I didn't try all that hard. 

Complaining Gets You Places. Or Money.

Hey, remember three days ago when I went on a verbal rampage and wanted to kick the ever-loving shyte out of the United States Postal Service AND Amazon because they purposefully tried to sabotage my academic career?

Remember when I literally lost sleep over it because I was stressing so bad over falling way behind in one of my classes and spent the next 24 hours kicking things around my house?

Probably not because I didn't tell anyone that. Except I guess I just did. Oh well.

On second thought, no I didn't because if I did one might think I have serious anger problems. I don't. (Shall I mention again that one of those books was for an anger management class, or is that information best kept to myself? Email me and let me know) I'm female, so I complain a lot (A LOT) and obsess non-stop about something that's bothering me until I find a solution.

It's like a math problem, really.

Emily complains about a problem to 35 people within a 50 mile radius for 6 days. If half of those people are male and half of those people are female, what sex is the leftover person?

I got distracted.

I chose the wrong number of people to complain to. 35 isn't an even number if we're splitting them in half.

Just forget about the math equation for a minute.

So after everything I ordered either showed up soaked in a questionable liquid or was cancelled by Amazon, I took myself over to a different textbook website. I searched out the textbooks I needed and was met with surprise.

Number one, they had their crap in stock. For real, not fake like Amazon.

Also, by ordering the three books I needed, I actually saved fifty bucks by using their website because their books are cheaper. AND the seller who sold me the soaking wet book offered to refund my purchase price, only I said no because it was the evil USPS who ruined it, so the seller refunded my shipping costs. Word. That seller is awesome.

See? I have a problem, I complain to everyone and I save $56.

And you men think we blabber on for no reason at all.

Joke's on you, suckas!

My hatred for the United States Postal Service. May they perish.

Winter Quarter has started.

And I already want to kill someone.

More specifically, Amazon. And the United States Postal (dis)Service.

So, books. I had to get some for classes, right? And everyone knows they're about a million dollars in the college bookstore. You can get them for around half a million on sites like Amazon and AbeBooks. You just have to shop around.

Last quarter I used AbeBooks and had pretty good luck finding what I needed at a reasonable price (mind you, I am a TOTAL cheapskate so having to pay 50% of the campus store price was a good savings, but still a crap-ton of money).

Last weekend, Shenanigan tagged along to the bookstore with me and assisted in comparison shopping right then and there (Smart Phones- gotta love 'em. I don't, though. I hate them. But I will take advantage of their convenience when necessary). Amazon had the best prices, so I wrote down the ISBN numbers with the intent to order the books online and we left the store.

That was Monday. On Tuesday I got three emails informing me that my card had been declined. Crap. I forgot that a while back I had to cancel one of my debit cards (due to some fraudulent charges that I may explain in a future post once my kid is 18 and no longer grounded for what he did). Said card was still linked up to my Amazon account, so no wonder the charges were declined. I changed my billing info and re-ordered the books.

The next day, I received another "declined" notice for two of the books. The third book purchase had gone through. WTF. So I went back, re-entered my debit info, waited about twenty minutes to see if I got another notice and thought all was well when nothing happened.

Until I received a third notice of decline. I think that was when I panicked and thought someone had hacked my bank account and stolen all of my precious dollars, so I switched browsers and logged into my bank account. All good there. Hm. Weird that one of the books had gone through, but the other two were being declined. They were purchased from different sellers. (I never did figure out what happened there.)

Screw this, I thought to myself. I'll throw it on my credit card and just pay with that. It worked. Frickin' website.

The first book that had already gone through was ordered with rush shipping. By this time it was Wednesday and I was already missing assignments by not having the textbook. By Friday I was getting annoyed that it had been 5 days and no word on my book other than "shipped" appearing on the Amazon page.

Until I got YET ANOTHER FREAKING NOTICE saying that book was now CANCELLED because it was not in stock.

Pretty sure the neighbors could hear my cussing when I got that email.

I was pretty pissed, frankly. I was a week behind in that class already, had paid extra for rush-shipping and now the book wasn't even coming. Frick. I ordered the book from a different site at a higher price. Double damn. I hate spending more than originally planned.

Saturday evening rolled around and my 11 checked the mail.

Guess what he brought me.

A sopping wet, totally disgusting textbook. The very same textbook that had apparently been out of stock, but was now sitting on my bedspread, the nasty water seeping into my duvet.

I sat there, staring at the package.

"Where the hell did you get that?" I asked my 11, pointing at the plastic mess.

"From the mailbox, Mom." My 11 shook his head at me and left the room. I poked the sodden grossness with my pencil. It fell to the floor.

"HEY! You didn't by chance get this thing handed to you by a man in a flaming red devil suit, did you?" I yelled to my kid.

"No, Mom. Satan did not hand me that book."

I wasn't too sure.

The book was in there. All 900 pounds of waterlogged pages. Gross. And I was pissed. Obviously I didn't check the "marinate my book in rainwater" option on Amazon.

The USPS was behind this. I just knew it.

Earlier this summer, Rawr and I got all crazy and tried to be PNW Snooki look-alike's (NO NOT REALLY. MY GOD) and I ordered some kind of tanning oil off of EBay that Rawr loved and the USPS stole it. And refused to return it.

It's kind of a long story ad I would appreciate it if we could stay on task here. That's an entirely different blog post ...If I haven't blogged about it already. (Crap, what if I did and I can't remember? Pathetic)

On the front of the plastic wrap was some crappy pre-printed note from the USPS stating that accidents happen and nothing is fool proof and they effed up and basically I'm screwed out f a sixty dollar book because they have one-armed, blind monkey's working for them.

Bitter? Yeah. I am. What gave it away?

I contacted the seller to see if there was insurance on my purchase. Of course there wasn't. I politely suggested that they make insurance an option for buyers in the future (I was nice. I really was).

And then I set fire to the USPS lobby.

Well, that was a lie because I'm pretty sure I would get caught since I don't run very fast. Also, I'm a little too soft for jail. Plus, I would have to get a prison name and with my luck I'd get stuck with a name like Mork and end up getting my ass kicked.

I'm boycotting the USPS. Again. Because now I refuse to order anything from anywhere involving that place. I'm either using a carrier pigeon or UPS.

Oh, and guess what. In my rage-induced haze of hatred, I forgot to cancel the second book. Guess what just cleared my account and is now "shipped?"

Mother effer.

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Year

Scene: Girl Scout Parent Meeting at an undisclosed location at 1800 hours. Girl Scout Leader (GSL) commences meeting after biting off Shenanigan's husband's head because she apparently thought Rawr (who's married) or I brought a date. To a Girl Scout Meeting. Riiiight.

GSL: NEWS. BLAH. BARK. LADIES! Cookie Talk. NOW.

Rawr: [coughs under breath] Hell no.

Me: [leaping to feet and staring nervously at other parents] Ahem. Yes, well. As you know, cookie season is upon us and we are here to discuss the severity of what we're about to embark on.

Absolute silence. And a lot of staring. Seriously. I think I heard a cricket.

Me: [entering managerial mode because I just pictured all the parents in Burger King uniforms holding sliecs of cheese and standing in my way] We're going to rock this season! We're going to sell the ever-loving SHIT out of these cookies, AMIRIGHT?!

Okay, well, I didn't exactly say it in those words. Or anything close to those words. But they knew that's what I really meant when I droned on and on and onandonandon about cookies and all that crap. Rawr and I'd been to the informational meeting earlier that month and we saw everything in action last year. Piece of cake.

I felt pretty confident about my and Rawr's cookie responsibilities.

Until tonight.

I think it was around the time I was sitting on my living room floor completely surrounded by piles and piles of Cookie Papers that it dawned on me: I had no idea what I was doing. And like, 18 people were depending on me to pull this crap off without a hitch.

So I started talking to myself.

What.

I used to do it in my Burger Office all the time. I would shut the door and take four shallow breaths and unleash an absolute crap-storm of fury on my filing cabinet and spreadsheets. Unfortunately for my team, the office had a window and fortunately for the team, the window allowed them to see for themselves when it was safe to knock (which was never).

That was on a regular day. Have you ever worked with the public? When I was really pissed I would go in the freezer and kick the fry boxes. Whatever.

Okay then.

Rawr and I have to figure out the number of boxes the girls are going to sell (which is a crap-ton. Seriously. Thousands of boxes will be sold). We have to select the flavors of cookies based on that number and HOPE we order the correct flavors so that we don't run out. We have to input thousands of pieces of information into a computer system and I'm not even sure what system that is or where to find it. Then we have to pick up and store the case of cookies. And dish it out to the girls throughout the season. And monitor the inventory. And be responsible for cash, and in the middle of this seemingly easy task I couldn't think of anything other than WHAT IF I HAD TO GO BACK TO WORK AND RUN A BURGER KING AGAIN AND WHAT IF I FORGOT HOW?

Why do I care, you ask? Heck if I know. Because I worry about weird stuff that carries no meaning. Hello, I'm a woman. like you needed to ask.

Also because I can be extremely competitive and all sense of reasoning goes out the window. It's sort of a no-holds barred kind of thing and there's usually a lot of yelling and a little bit of swearing. There is one of you in particular who was there and lived to tell about it who can vouch for The Crazy. Who now has my old job. SUCKA! But you know I'm right.

Surrounded by Cookie Crap, I gave myself a little pep talk about how our troop would rise above to conquer dieters and house wives everywhere, kicked my entertainment center (ow) and got myself together.

Rawr and I will rock this.

As soon as she opens up her front door and see's that I've dumped it all on her porch.

I get stuff done yo.

Back Dated

I wrote this a several months ago when I was sort of in a blacked-out bottomless pit of limbo and an unstable continuance. I decided to post this because when I woke up this morning, I felt like there was sunshine and hope in my life. For the first time in a very, very long time. That is a good way to wake up. 

Mind you, the day continued and got all screwy, but it started out pretty great.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
This was originally titled "WTF is wrong with me."

That wasn't a question.

I have issues. Some of you are very aware of them.

For instance, if y'all were to call up Rawr on the old horn, she'd tell you that I'm sort of crazy, a little bit funny and mainly obsessive compulsive. At the time of this typing, Rawr was unavailable for comment. Mostly because I didn't ask her opinion. I just wrote that stuff. I honestly have no idea what she thinks of me.

Shenanigan is easier. Often times, she will tell me exactly what she thinks of me. I save all her texts because they make me feel good about myself. Really, who doesn't like looking through old messages and reading a kind word from friends? She writes stuff like, "It's been lonely without you here. Nothing compares to you. " Then again, that might be a song stuck in my head from another friend's Facebook post. Sometimes it'a hard to tell one media from another.

What the hell was I rambling on about?

Oh, right.

Issues.

Mine, in particular.

Today was a hard day. I have those sometimes. Usually, when I write about things that happen to me, I try and make it funny and hope for a laugh. But, there are days when I feel like I'm on the verge of coming apart at the seams. I don't talk about those days because they are infrequent, and can usually be squashed by some horrifically-funny thing one of my kids will do, or a friend dropping in to say hello and pulling me out of my funk.

I'm not crazy. I'm not dangerous and I would never hurt anyone (are those things that crazy, violent criminals say?).

But sometimes, life can be so full of worries and activities that It boils over. Feelings.

I am a mellow person. I am patient, I am a thinker. And kind of a push-over. I enjoy listening to people as a way of getting to know them. I ask questions, but most people will spill their guts (figuratively) to me without much coercion.

I'm not complaining of being burdened by anyone's troubles. Not at all. I'm happy to be there for any one of my friends when they need me. I wouldn't call myself a "fixer." I will offer advice if it is solicited. However, I don't generally push my opinion on anyone (see previous admission of being a pushover).

But being this type of person has an effect on me. I tend to squash my feelings. Pile them all up inside of me and ignore them. Every so often, I get full, so to speak. Things bubble up, so I will take a minute to clear out just enough space to put the lid back on.

This can go on for a bit, but if you're smart, you'll realize that eventually the hinges on that lid are going to wear out and then it's going to be pretty tough to keep all of that inside. Or, if the hinges manage to hold, maybe the stick used to smash everything down will break. Basically, you can't keep shoving things down inside of a hole and expect it to remain bottomless (I so, SO want to make an inappropriate joke here. But I won't. Because my Mom reads this).

The last few weeks, I've been noticing that my hinges are rusty.

Today, they broke.

I wish I had a super-funny, absolutely side-splitting story to share with you.

I have this:

I woke up this morning knowing that today was going to be one of Those Days. Where I felt kind of off, a little panicky.

Okay, cool, I told myself. Good thing Rawr is out of town and Elle is going to the zoo with her kids, Shenanigan is working, Mumsie lives two hours away and you have nothing planned. Why didn't you fill up the day with plans? You know how we get when we have free time. Free Time leads to thinking time and thinking time leads to Freak-out time. You over analyze and we all know how that goes.

Apparently, there are two of me in here. I never knew that until just now. Funny how things just come out when you write.

I tried to stave off the impending panic attack that I just knew was coming, and took my three kiddos to the library downtown. It's a brand-new library with an entire floor dedicated to kids. It even has stuff for them to play in/on/around. I am so happy that my kids have such a kickin' place to read books. Yeah, except they never read there. They just play. Which I suppose is pretty cool. My 9 and 5 were playing in the kitchen and they turned it into a restaurant reminisent of Hell's Kitchen, only it should have been names Hitler's Kitchen because I swear I saw my 9 bark an order to fill a plate for table thirty and then do that salute thing that I don't like to talk about because I feel that it brings bad luck.

I know she did it, too, because some little blonde haired, blue-eyed boy jumped up and grabbed the plate, then ran out of the kitchen and threw it at another kid (who happened to be dark-haired. I'm just saying).

We left. We went home. And later, I cried. Great big, huge gulping sobs. While I was sitting at the top of the stairs, folding laundry with my sister.

And she told me, "Life is hard."

Very simple. And so very true.

The Giving Girl

My 6 woke up this morning talking to herself. I couldn't hear what she was saying and I was only mildly concerned when I heard a robotic response. Is it weird that I have no idea which toy was talking back to her? I mean, she didn't get any talking toys as gifts and the girls did not previously own anything like that.

Her room is catty-corner from mine and while I was folding laundry on my bed I saw her cross the hallway and leave the bathroom several times with fistfuls of tissue paper. Not toilet paper. Tissue. Like, for gift bags.

I don't keep that stuff in the bathroom, for obvious reasons. So I called out and asked her what she was doing.

"Nothing, Momma. I'm just doing this surprise."

Interesting. My 6 usually stays out of trouble, so I chose to put off my investigation until I finished the laundry.

Except then I got sidetracked editing photos of the kids over Christmas and then one thing led to another and  eventually I was on Facebook glaring at everyone's wishes for a Happy New Year and Look at My Resolutions!

(Can we just say that I'm glad the Holiday's are over and not go into why? Cool. Thanks)

My 6 entered the room holding a banged up purple gift bag with bits of tissue paper sticking out. It was tied at the top with a knotted red ribbon which had been discarded from her older sister's wrapping paper pile from her birthday two days ago (BTW, my 9 is now a 10).

Me: [eyeing the bag] What's that, Ding Dong?

My 6: [climbing up onto my bed] It's just some things I have for my sister.

Me: Really. What do you have in there? Can I look?

A nod.

I peeked inside. She had a bunch of tissue paper-wrapped items, all knotted with scraggly bows. It was the cutest thing EVER.

My 6: Only don't open them because it's for her birthday. I was sorry I missed it and now I have to make it up to her. Heh.

Me: When are you going to give this to her?

My 6: [as she hops off my bed] When she starts being nice to me. I have to go hide it from her.

Sounds like every birthday experience Elle and I ever shared.

My 6 came back into the room several minutes later with everything unwrapped so that she could show me. She had wrapped up her stuffed Beanie Baby cat (her most treasured possession), a comb, a stuffed deer and a bag of shells she had picked up at the beach last week. All of my 6's favorite things. She chose to give them to her sister.

She was smiling and very pleased with herself as she re-wrapped everything and put the bows back on, then placed the bag in the middle of the entryway so that her big sister would see it first thing as she came through the door from school.

That little stinker is just the cutest thing.