Worry Shrew...

I am not a worry wart. Not me. No way. No how.

Me?

I am a worry shrew.

Yes, a worry shrew, complete with a wart, a snaggle tooth and a rolling, lazy eye.

I burn the midnight oil as I run endless circles, wringing my knobbly fingers and hissing my endless worries.

When I am in the thick of a spell, I scold. I curse. I growl and I spit.

Nothing soothes my prickly thoughts or calms my crabby demeanor.

Yes, I am a worry shrew.

As for those worry warts?

Well…..they’re just a bunch of sissies ….

Grrrrrrr…

Hullabaloo and the Hippo, too!!

Of course, I didn't mean to get caught up in the hullabaloo. I never planned for things to get so out of hand.

What began as a friendly game of Hungry Hippo between a father and his daughters turned into a rumpus.

I prefaced the game with a bit of a warning. "Check your competitive edge at the door, cowboy."

He nodded enthusiastically, apparently more than willing to throw the game, allowing the under 5 crowd to take all the glory.

As the game began, at first I thought he was just laying it on a little too thick.

"Give 'em a little fight, honey," I said as I refilled lemonades.

Didn't take me too long to figure out the beads of sweat and the vice grip on his designated hippo weren't for show. My honey couldn't get his game on. He was a rookie and he was getting his hiney handed to him.....in a hurry!

I quickly came to assist.

"It's all in the wrist."

"Don't snap the hippos mouth so quickly. Patience."

"Put your back into it!"

"For crying out loud. They're slaughtering you!!"

I just couldn't stand by watching it anymore.

Pushing him aside, I took the Hungry Hippo helm.

And, that's how we all ended up in the toy aisle at Target.

Apparently, too much vigor can jam a Hungry Hippo and put a bit of a damper on an evening.

Next time, we'll stick with Candyland. Don't think that game should get too sticky.

Toot.

I live with a family of musicians, always entertaining me with random honks and toots and rips.

My hubby likes to play his instrument in the shower and while reclining on the couch after dinner. His melody is strictly baritone and he rarely strays from his usual tune. I have grown accustomed to his music and could single him out in a roomful of tooters. I have often wondered if it is the shape of his instrument or his many years of experience that have contributed to his musical flair.

My daughters are just learning their instruments. They are musically all over the map, a baritone drilled into the high chair, a tenor ricocheting in the shopping cart, a lone high note in the middle of story time at the library.

Once, while grocery shopping, I was serenaded by a duet by my daughters. I could only smile and nod my head to the beat. I was disappointed with the grocery store’s acoustics. The background noise of the store made it difficult to hear some of the smooth lower notes. The fellow shopper in line seemed to appreciate the subtlety of their song…a quick turn of the heel and was that a sneer?

As for me, well, my bloggy friends, I do not play an instrument. And, when the rare note does manage to escape, I always give credit to others. I am, after all, a lady.