This morning the library called to tell me that I had two items being held for me. This reminded me of the pile of books that were likely overdue. Going to the library jumped up to the top of the priority list, so I loaded Gleek and Patch into the car and we went. On the way to and from the building I avoided cars, made sure not to step in mud, and navigated curbs. Gleek and Patch avoided hordes of goblins, skirted a mire of doom, and rode a griffin across a bottomless chasm. Their world is far more interesting than mine. We dashed and sneaked our way through the library, picking up books along the way. At the end I checked all the kids library accounts, paid fines, and renewed books. Then we traversed back to the car for the journey home. On the drive home there was much discussion of goblins, seeing stones, and hobgobin spit. (We’ve been reading The Spiderwick Chronicles.)
I had over a dozen hardboiled eggs sitting on my kitchen counter. I’d cooked them this morning with the intention of making egg salad for lunch. The egg salad was abandoned in favor of speedier PBJ, so the eggs sat waiting. I pulled out an empty carton to put the eggs away for later. Whenever I stow hardboiled eggs in the fridge, I draw little smiley faces on them. This allows us all to know at a glance which eggs may be peeled and which are a mess waiting to happen. The eggs always look so cute with their row of smiling faces. I started drawing faces on this batch. It is interesting to me how the quick little smiles develop personalities. One egg looks sweet. The next looks goofy. By about the seventh egg, I started to feel sorry for these little faces smiling at the people who will crack them open and eat them. Perhaps not all of the eggs were happy to be boiled. The next egg looked a little worried. The one after was surprised. One ended up mad. One looked like he was hatching a plot to escape from the fridge in rebellion. I think he needs to be the first to go. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
The last line of this post drove me to comment more than anything else you’ve posted lately. That you after dealing with hordes of children as well as everything you do for Schlock and your own work, are still able to look at the little eggies and have the imagination to attribute personalities and little eggy vendettas to them (not that I’m doubting your eggy’s vendetta, oh no. I can believe his plotting little eggy mind very well) shows, again, that you are a very awesome lady. Howard is a very lucky man.
And as someone who has so far refused to grow up past that stage, I can say that the world of a small child, with it’s many dangers and amazing saves from impossible odds, is rather a fun, if quite tiring one to live in.
It was only after I finished this entry that I realized the implicit irony in me talking about the flights of fancy taken by my children and then indulging in eggy fantasy myself. The irony amused me, so I let it remain. Besides, something really has to be done about that egg.
I’m glad the post amused you too. 🙂
Oh Sandra, thanks for the Giggles. I needed them.
Ona
You’re welcome.
Absolutely nothing wrong with letting a little fantasy into your life. I think you should post a photo of those tricksy eggs so we can all see and interpet the expressions.
I bet if you go back and look again one of the earlier one’s is smirking with the expectation that one of the other eggs will get cracked first.
Thank you very much for the big grin, Sandra. It helped liven up an otherwise less lively day.
Might I suggest that the plotting one be made into a deviled egg? Only seems appropriate…
-John
That would be so fitting! 🙂
Has the little devil been taken care of by now, Sandra? 🙂
I would rather not see a picture of the eggs– Sandra’s writing and my imagination fill in the gaps of having no picture In my opinion, sometimes words are better if they stand alone without pictures.
This is an outstanding post. I’d never thought I be curious about what happen to your food, let alone your hard boils eggs. Yet here I am trying to guess at what happen to them–especially the little plotting egg. Did he get eaten? Or did he manage to escape (despite all the odds).
You cannot avoid it now…we all want to know what happen those hard boil eggs.
Alas photos of the tricky eggs are not to be. They’ve already been rendered into egg salad for sandwiches.
What a marvelously appropriate suggestion. I shall have to consider it.
His plotting days are over. We had egg salad sandwiches for lunch.
The poor little smiling eggses. At least your family is safe once again from the plotter, though. 🙂
I loved the hordes of goblins, bottomless chasms, and mire of doom. Creative imaginative offspring often have creative, imaginative parents. Do you remember driving our little red Fiat through a rainstorm and as we passed cars and bicycles and pedestrians you saw whales and an octopus and sea horses? The hard boiled egss of your childhood got faces drawn on them but they never managed to aquire personalities. But oh the trauma–all the eggs have gone to pieces!