Today I asked my sister-in-law to lowlight my hair. Nothing major, just a semi-permanent color to add "richness and depth"....or at least that's what the dye bottle breathlessly promised.
Anyway, she used foils on it, which was something my kids and my nieces had never seen up close. They eyed me suspiciously the whole time, chewing thoughtfully on snacks, and watching the goings-on from the safety of the kitchen table. At one point, Lotus announced that I "looked like a fish" with the tin foil "a bunch of shiny scales". They took great interest at the final product, and couldn't wait to see what it looked like when I removed my "scales" and washed out the dye.
When it was all finished, and I had dried my hair, they crowded around me. My oldest niece looked at me, then solemnly pronounced that I looked like Pocahontas. The other two girls nodded their agreement.
"But!" Kala said suddenly, "like Pocahontas looked before she jumped off the cliff."
"Jumped off the cliff?" I asked (I've never seen Pocahontas).
She nods. "You don't look like her then. Buuuuuut......" she tilts her head to one side and studies me. "If you run through the house, really fast, and your hair flies out behind you, then it'll be ok."
So if I'm running next time you see me, it'll be because I'm attempting to get all the cliff-jumping look, with none of the bothersome cliff jumping.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What Gabriel Watches During Mass
Gabriel is still half-heartedly potty training. Today, he was wandering around the house wearing only a Pull-Up and a shirt. He walks over to his little potty thing, which is in the living room, then pulls his shirt up. I assume he's going to pee, and my attention wanders elsewhere.
"Mommy, look me," Gabriel insists. I look at him, and he's got his shirt, still pulled up, tucked under his chin, so his belly and Pull-Up are exposed. His arms are spread wide apart, and his hands are open. "I Jesus!" He says, and gets a huge grin on his face.
Nothing registers for a few seconds. Then I realize that Gabriel is imitating the Corpus on the giant crucifix at the front of St. Brigid. The one where Jesus is stripped of all clothing except for a loin cloth. All this time I thought Gabriel was firmly ignoring all things related to Mass, and here he was watching Jesus, thinking that He was wearing a Pull-Up, too.
"I Jesus!" he says again, smiling hugely, while I silently thank Jesus for sharing His Gabriel with me.
"Mommy, look me," Gabriel insists. I look at him, and he's got his shirt, still pulled up, tucked under his chin, so his belly and Pull-Up are exposed. His arms are spread wide apart, and his hands are open. "I Jesus!" He says, and gets a huge grin on his face.
Nothing registers for a few seconds. Then I realize that Gabriel is imitating the Corpus on the giant crucifix at the front of St. Brigid. The one where Jesus is stripped of all clothing except for a loin cloth. All this time I thought Gabriel was firmly ignoring all things related to Mass, and here he was watching Jesus, thinking that He was wearing a Pull-Up, too.
"I Jesus!" he says again, smiling hugely, while I silently thank Jesus for sharing His Gabriel with me.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Co-sleeping Is Sometimes Annoying
Last night, around three in the morning, I was woken by Joaquin, standing at my side of the bed, informing me that it was "too dark" in his room, and that he would be sleeping with us for the remainder of the night.
I found him a pillow, moved over a few inches, and he crawled in between Ken and me. It's a big honking bed, people. There was no reason for me to even shove over, but I did because I'm a giver.
Joaquin snuggled up next to me as I tried to fall back asleep. No use. And now I was really tired and feeling that jittery, raw feeling you get when you know you need to sleep but can't. I sort of shove Joaquin off me in a not-so-gentle way, and roll over. It's a big bed, there's got to be some place I can find in it where I can sleep without being touched by husband or child.
Finally, I find it. A three inch strip along the very edge. I settle in, try to calm my mind down...down....down....then suddenly there's a pair of little boy feet pushing against my butt. I move them off me. A few minutes later, Joaquin thinks that draping his whole leg over me would be a fantastic idea. In response, I thrash so wildly that it wakes the dog, who is sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed. Being woken up, he decides he needs to go outside, and that I'm just the human to make that happen for him.
Swearing under my breath, I get out of bed, let the dog out, let the dog back in, then shove Joaquin out of my three inch strip. Ken, in the meantime, is sleeping blissfully, sprawled out in the majority of the king sized bed.
Mercifully, sleep eventually comes.
This afternoon, I was putting Joaquin down for a nap. I asked him why he came downstairs during the night. He fixes me with eyes that clearly convey that I am an idiot for asking such a stupid question, and says, "Because it was dark in my room, Mama."
"Right." I say. "But it was nighttime. That's how rooms get when the sun goes down. Were you scared of something?"
"No. I wasn't scared. It was just dark." He shakes his head at me, and his whole face is frowning at my inability to grasp his point.
"Do you know you kept putting your feet on me in your sleep?" I ask.
Suddenly, his face breaks into a huge grin, and he laughs. "Yeeeeaaaah. That was funny!"
"Funny? What? Why did you do that? I kept pushing your feet off me."
"I did that because I liked to do it. It was fun."
We'll see how much fun Mr. Foot-putter-oner has next time the dark wakes him and drives him from his bed.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
We Went to the Zoo, and it Rained SO HARD.....
...that Debra and I got soaking wet. See? Check out the size of the drops behind us. We look like we're from Jersey in the 90s or something.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Sometimes the Magic Works, Sometimes It Doesn't
I feel like most days, if you were to turn yourself into a fly and come land on my wall (provided you still maintained human brain capacity and that Ken didn't swat you into oblivion), you would spend your day laughing your tiny little fly butt off at my family. We're pretty funny people. And the pack of savages I'm raising manage to get themselves into situations that I'm fairly certain will amuse even me, given the appropriate passage of time.
So on days like this, when my brain has shut down by 7:30, and I can't parlay that droll little day into a series of droll little anecdotes for your entertainment, I get a little cranky. I feel vaguely like a failure. I resist the urge to wake my children up and demand that they do something outrageous right this instant so I can go document it on Blogger.
And that's when I realize that I need to take a deep breath, and step away from the computer.
So on days like this, when my brain has shut down by 7:30, and I can't parlay that droll little day into a series of droll little anecdotes for your entertainment, I get a little cranky. I feel vaguely like a failure. I resist the urge to wake my children up and demand that they do something outrageous right this instant so I can go document it on Blogger.
And that's when I realize that I need to take a deep breath, and step away from the computer.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Of Vegetables and Rebels (and Rebellious Vegetables)
I will never forget the first time Ken showed me this house. The transfer from Michigan to Mississippi came quickly, and so he was down here for two and a half months before Lotus and I (with Joaquin in uterine tow) followed.
During that time, Ken was in charge of finding us a house. Yes, that's right, he picked our house sight (mostly) unseen by myself. So the day we took possession, and he drove me through the neighborhood grandly named "Plantation", I was struck dumb. Surely there was some mistake? Surely this was a passage to another, more modest neighborhood? But no, these giant plantation-style houses were, in fact, part of the same neighborhood I was to live in. Amazing! I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. I had come from a 900 square foot, GI Bill-built, brick ranch from a Detroit suburb. To me, this was some sort of golf course-centered Shangra-La, with a mysterious entity called a "homeowners association" guarding us all with their "covenants". I had little idea what those last two points meant, other than we had to pay them a large sum of money each year, but it seemed to me, at first, rather like nobles presenting their king with a portion of their harvest and whatnot.
Ah....but fast forward 5 years later, and how the nobles stew in malcontent. What once seemed to be an offering of goodwill to the HOA has now begun to smack of "protection money" paid out to the Mafia. Covenants are enforced so irregularly, dues spent so recklessly, the very identity of those on "the Board" so shrouded in mystery that one cannot help but bristle under the yoke of Plantation tyrany!
And so, dear readers, the suburban rebel has undertaken a small civil war from the cul-de-sac at the back of the sub. She has, in clear violation of the covenants, planted food crops in the front yard. Yes, that's right, she has dared to plant one watermelon vine, five tomato plants, and two peppers in the flower bed right smack in the front of her house. She has gleefully watered those plants faithfully! She has weeded! She has taken steps to protect them from rabbits AND insects (organic steps, to be sure)! She has spoken soothing words over them to encourage their growth!
But for weeks and weeks, strectching into months- nothing. Oh, the plants flourished, but they set no fruit. The suburban rebel grew fretful. How can one violate covenants against front yard food crops when her crops weren't....er.....cropping? It even robbed her of some sort of satistaction when the neighbor, who is the "block captain" (read: local agent of the HOA board), saw her watermelon vine, enquired about it, and wouldn't believe the suburban rebel when she told her it was a food crop.
"Really?" the snitch said (she's not really a snitch, she's a great neighbor and I like her a lot, but for the dramatic effect, I have to use certain vocabulary...) "Watermelon?" she looked it over thoughtfully. "I just see pretty yellow flowers." The rebel scowled behind her.
And then, one day, it happened! A watermelon! Then two! Then two more! Growing, so quickly you could almost stand still and watch them get bigger. And today, two tiny green tomatoes were spotted! Now, if the peppers would only cooperate (blasted peppers, if only they weren't so delicious!), then victory would be mine! I would show those HOA mafia-types where they could stick their random covenants!
As it is, only a few more weeks, and I plan on picking the first fruit of the watermelon, and offering a slice of it to the cul-de-sac snitch. We'll see how much the HOA is willing to enforce their stupid rules when there's the promise of Mississippi-grown watermelon staring them in the face!
(end with the sound of evil laughter, only I don't know how I would translate that to type.)
During that time, Ken was in charge of finding us a house. Yes, that's right, he picked our house sight (mostly) unseen by myself. So the day we took possession, and he drove me through the neighborhood grandly named "Plantation", I was struck dumb. Surely there was some mistake? Surely this was a passage to another, more modest neighborhood? But no, these giant plantation-style houses were, in fact, part of the same neighborhood I was to live in. Amazing! I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. I had come from a 900 square foot, GI Bill-built, brick ranch from a Detroit suburb. To me, this was some sort of golf course-centered Shangra-La, with a mysterious entity called a "homeowners association" guarding us all with their "covenants". I had little idea what those last two points meant, other than we had to pay them a large sum of money each year, but it seemed to me, at first, rather like nobles presenting their king with a portion of their harvest and whatnot.
Ah....but fast forward 5 years later, and how the nobles stew in malcontent. What once seemed to be an offering of goodwill to the HOA has now begun to smack of "protection money" paid out to the Mafia. Covenants are enforced so irregularly, dues spent so recklessly, the very identity of those on "the Board" so shrouded in mystery that one cannot help but bristle under the yoke of Plantation tyrany!
And so, dear readers, the suburban rebel has undertaken a small civil war from the cul-de-sac at the back of the sub. She has, in clear violation of the covenants, planted food crops in the front yard. Yes, that's right, she has dared to plant one watermelon vine, five tomato plants, and two peppers in the flower bed right smack in the front of her house. She has gleefully watered those plants faithfully! She has weeded! She has taken steps to protect them from rabbits AND insects (organic steps, to be sure)! She has spoken soothing words over them to encourage their growth!
But for weeks and weeks, strectching into months- nothing. Oh, the plants flourished, but they set no fruit. The suburban rebel grew fretful. How can one violate covenants against front yard food crops when her crops weren't....er.....cropping? It even robbed her of some sort of satistaction when the neighbor, who is the "block captain" (read: local agent of the HOA board), saw her watermelon vine, enquired about it, and wouldn't believe the suburban rebel when she told her it was a food crop.
"Really?" the snitch said (she's not really a snitch, she's a great neighbor and I like her a lot, but for the dramatic effect, I have to use certain vocabulary...) "Watermelon?" she looked it over thoughtfully. "I just see pretty yellow flowers." The rebel scowled behind her.
And then, one day, it happened! A watermelon! Then two! Then two more! Growing, so quickly you could almost stand still and watch them get bigger. And today, two tiny green tomatoes were spotted! Now, if the peppers would only cooperate (blasted peppers, if only they weren't so delicious!), then victory would be mine! I would show those HOA mafia-types where they could stick their random covenants!
As it is, only a few more weeks, and I plan on picking the first fruit of the watermelon, and offering a slice of it to the cul-de-sac snitch. We'll see how much the HOA is willing to enforce their stupid rules when there's the promise of Mississippi-grown watermelon staring them in the face!
(end with the sound of evil laughter, only I don't know how I would translate that to type.)
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
I STILL HATE POTTY TRAINING!
Those of you who have been following the train wreck of my daily life through this blog may remember my documentation of Joaquin's potty training extravaganza. Those of you who were late to the party, or just want to relive the joy, I direct you to the original post, found here: I HATE POTTY TRAINING
So Gabriel has been extremely interested in all things bowel and bladder related for a few months now. Either that, or he is a creepy little kid who enjoys staring at people when they're sitting on the toilet. Could be both, who knows.
Anyway, somehow I found myself on the crazy train to potty training again, which I don't really want to embark on with a newly-turned-two-year old, but the lure of one child in diapers is just too seductive. So, common sense be damned, observe me at Wal-Mart. Observe me with four children, trying to find the cheapest potty ($10, but made from exciting new "plant-based plastic"- isn't most plastic plant based? Or at least fossilized plants?). Observe me, with four children and a "green" potty, trying to find the cheapest set of underwear that wasn't festooned with trademarked characters. Observe me ignoring my list and purchasing several items for myself as a sort of retail therapy. $52 dollars later, out of Wal-Mart.
We get home, and I give Gabriel the vocabulary lesson.
"Underwear. Potty. Sit on the potty, pee or poop in it, and you get M&Ms"
"Nemenems?" The promise of candy gets Gabriel's interest. I play on that.
"Yup. You pee on the potty, and you get a whole handful of M&Ms!"
At this point, Joaquin saunters into the kitchen, looking suspicious.
"Mama? If I pee on my potty, do I get-"
"No." I say, cutting him off.
"But-"
"No!" He turns to Gabriel.
"Gabriel, will you share some of your nemenems with me?"
"NO!" says Gabriel, too street smart for this foolishness.
And with that, it begins. Gabriel, delighted not only by the promise of candy, but the "clothing optional" attitude I've adopted runs around the house au natural, doing naked dances, and standing on top of his potty and body slamming stuffed animals.
Then it happens. He sits, pees, and stands up, declairing "POOP!"
"Poop?" I ask, looking up from my book, which I've been able to read for 15 uninterrupted minutes, because the kids are all so consumed with potty fever that they've left me alone.
I look in the pot.
"Not poop. Pee. But good job!" A short lesson on where poop comes from vs. pee is delivered, and then the house breaks into the same jubilant song we created when Joaquin was potty training (why the hell we should remember that, I don't know). M&Ms are given to all. 10 minutes later, the scene is repeated. Pee, singing, sugar.
By bedtime, he's peed four times on the potty, hasn't had a single accident, and I'm beginning to suspect that he's got a masterful control over his bladder and is able to force urine out at will, simply to get more M&Ms. Whatever works. I'm feel confident, the kids are happy (if slightly sugar-buzzed), and the household falls into a deep and blissful sleep.
And then the morning comes.
Evil Gabriel has returned. Stubborn, shrill Gabriel, who insists on putting his underwear on by himself. This results in two legs in one hole, stumbling, falling, and more screaming. He then labels underwear as evil, refuses to wear it, and I have spent the last 15 minutes issuing commands that he not put his penis on various objects: dinosaur books, the carpet, the Guitar Hero microphone...
But the capper for the whole morning came about 35 minutes after his morning cup of coffee (yes, yes, I know...). I was upstairs, writing this blog, Ken was downstairs reading the news, and Gabriel? Yeah. Gabriel was pooping. On the carpet. But the good news is that the carpet selected was downstairs, and Ken was the one who made the discovery, so he cleaned it up. I'm not sure how I got away with blogging while he cleaned, but I'm not dumb enough to ask.
I'm dumb enough to try potty training Gigantor this early, though.
So Gabriel has been extremely interested in all things bowel and bladder related for a few months now. Either that, or he is a creepy little kid who enjoys staring at people when they're sitting on the toilet. Could be both, who knows.
Anyway, somehow I found myself on the crazy train to potty training again, which I don't really want to embark on with a newly-turned-two-year old, but the lure of one child in diapers is just too seductive. So, common sense be damned, observe me at Wal-Mart. Observe me with four children, trying to find the cheapest potty ($10, but made from exciting new "plant-based plastic"- isn't most plastic plant based? Or at least fossilized plants?). Observe me, with four children and a "green" potty, trying to find the cheapest set of underwear that wasn't festooned with trademarked characters. Observe me ignoring my list and purchasing several items for myself as a sort of retail therapy. $52 dollars later, out of Wal-Mart.
We get home, and I give Gabriel the vocabulary lesson.
"Underwear. Potty. Sit on the potty, pee or poop in it, and you get M&Ms"
"Nemenems?" The promise of candy gets Gabriel's interest. I play on that.
"Yup. You pee on the potty, and you get a whole handful of M&Ms!"
At this point, Joaquin saunters into the kitchen, looking suspicious.
"Mama? If I pee on my potty, do I get-"
"No." I say, cutting him off.
"But-"
"No!" He turns to Gabriel.
"Gabriel, will you share some of your nemenems with me?"
"NO!" says Gabriel, too street smart for this foolishness.
And with that, it begins. Gabriel, delighted not only by the promise of candy, but the "clothing optional" attitude I've adopted runs around the house au natural, doing naked dances, and standing on top of his potty and body slamming stuffed animals.
Then it happens. He sits, pees, and stands up, declairing "POOP!"
"Poop?" I ask, looking up from my book, which I've been able to read for 15 uninterrupted minutes, because the kids are all so consumed with potty fever that they've left me alone.
I look in the pot.
"Not poop. Pee. But good job!" A short lesson on where poop comes from vs. pee is delivered, and then the house breaks into the same jubilant song we created when Joaquin was potty training (why the hell we should remember that, I don't know). M&Ms are given to all. 10 minutes later, the scene is repeated. Pee, singing, sugar.
By bedtime, he's peed four times on the potty, hasn't had a single accident, and I'm beginning to suspect that he's got a masterful control over his bladder and is able to force urine out at will, simply to get more M&Ms. Whatever works. I'm feel confident, the kids are happy (if slightly sugar-buzzed), and the household falls into a deep and blissful sleep.
And then the morning comes.
Evil Gabriel has returned. Stubborn, shrill Gabriel, who insists on putting his underwear on by himself. This results in two legs in one hole, stumbling, falling, and more screaming. He then labels underwear as evil, refuses to wear it, and I have spent the last 15 minutes issuing commands that he not put his penis on various objects: dinosaur books, the carpet, the Guitar Hero microphone...
But the capper for the whole morning came about 35 minutes after his morning cup of coffee (yes, yes, I know...). I was upstairs, writing this blog, Ken was downstairs reading the news, and Gabriel? Yeah. Gabriel was pooping. On the carpet. But the good news is that the carpet selected was downstairs, and Ken was the one who made the discovery, so he cleaned it up. I'm not sure how I got away with blogging while he cleaned, but I'm not dumb enough to ask.
I'm dumb enough to try potty training Gigantor this early, though.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Oh! That's How It All Connects!
So I did not post a photo montage for Lotus' birthday. I am a horrible mother.
Instead, I will tell you about Lotus' newest verbal twitch, which she seems to have picked up now that she's seven.
One of the things she wanted to do on her birthday was have me show her how to bake a cake. So we went to the grocery store, where she picked out a white cake mix (I am not awesome enough to make cakes from scratch. Yet). Getting it home, we read over the directions, and assembled all the necessary ingredients. It was at this time that I realized that the recipe called for three egg WHITES. Separating egg yolks from whites is something that makes me vomit a little in the back of my throat while rolling my eyes in horror. I expressed this to Lotus, who asked me why we needed to use just the egg whites.
"I don't know. I guess to keep the cake white, and not turn it yellow from the yolk."
"Oooooooh!" she said, nodding sagely (now that she's seven, she has accumulated enough sage to have it show up in her nodding), "That's how it all connects!" I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, but didn't say anything- weird little precocious gems come out of her mouth all the time. It's best to ignore them.
But the phrase seems to be more than a passing thing. Today, while looking at our two watermelons that has astonished the whole family by a) appearing from our watermelon vine in the first place b) keeping an aggressive and forward momentum on their growth and c) surviving the curious pokings and proddings of five little children (and at least two adults), she asked me why I didn't water the melons themselves, but instead put water at some obscure point three feet away from the fruit. I explained that I watered where I originally put the plant, since I assumed that's where the majority of the root system was located, and the vines would carry the nutrients along to the fruit.
"OOooooh!" she said again, in the same serious voice and the same serious nod of the head, "that's how it all connects." This time, a snort escaped me, but I managed to cover it up with a fake-turning-into-real coughing fit.
Just a few minutes ago, I was tucking her in, and idle chatter was being exchanged. She was showing me one of her new "Hank the Cowdog" books she got for her birthday, and describing the exploits of Hank, this time in the company of his sister's puppies.
"So those puppies are his neices and nephews?" I asked, looking at the cover. "Huh. I never pegged Hank for having any family."
"Mommy, are neices and nephews what you call your sister's kids?"
"Yup. Or your brother's kids."
"And neices are girls and nephews are boys?" she asks.
"Yup."
"ooooh!" here it comes again. "That's how it all connects!"
I love seven. So many mysteries of existence suddenly become understandable, and you're not too old yet to notice them when they do.
Instead, I will tell you about Lotus' newest verbal twitch, which she seems to have picked up now that she's seven.
One of the things she wanted to do on her birthday was have me show her how to bake a cake. So we went to the grocery store, where she picked out a white cake mix (I am not awesome enough to make cakes from scratch. Yet). Getting it home, we read over the directions, and assembled all the necessary ingredients. It was at this time that I realized that the recipe called for three egg WHITES. Separating egg yolks from whites is something that makes me vomit a little in the back of my throat while rolling my eyes in horror. I expressed this to Lotus, who asked me why we needed to use just the egg whites.
"I don't know. I guess to keep the cake white, and not turn it yellow from the yolk."
"Oooooooh!" she said, nodding sagely (now that she's seven, she has accumulated enough sage to have it show up in her nodding), "That's how it all connects!" I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, but didn't say anything- weird little precocious gems come out of her mouth all the time. It's best to ignore them.
But the phrase seems to be more than a passing thing. Today, while looking at our two watermelons that has astonished the whole family by a) appearing from our watermelon vine in the first place b) keeping an aggressive and forward momentum on their growth and c) surviving the curious pokings and proddings of five little children (and at least two adults), she asked me why I didn't water the melons themselves, but instead put water at some obscure point three feet away from the fruit. I explained that I watered where I originally put the plant, since I assumed that's where the majority of the root system was located, and the vines would carry the nutrients along to the fruit.
"OOooooh!" she said again, in the same serious voice and the same serious nod of the head, "that's how it all connects." This time, a snort escaped me, but I managed to cover it up with a fake-turning-into-real coughing fit.
Just a few minutes ago, I was tucking her in, and idle chatter was being exchanged. She was showing me one of her new "Hank the Cowdog" books she got for her birthday, and describing the exploits of Hank, this time in the company of his sister's puppies.
"So those puppies are his neices and nephews?" I asked, looking at the cover. "Huh. I never pegged Hank for having any family."
"Mommy, are neices and nephews what you call your sister's kids?"
"Yup. Or your brother's kids."
"And neices are girls and nephews are boys?" she asks.
"Yup."
"ooooh!" here it comes again. "That's how it all connects!"
I love seven. So many mysteries of existence suddenly become understandable, and you're not too old yet to notice them when they do.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Stuff.
When I did my year of endured servitude- er- student teaching through MSU, my "contact teacher" (read: professional whose territory I was raiding, bringing with me a whole slew of crazy, university approved ideas) passed along some of pearls of wisdom, most of which I have found to be enduring in their accuracy. Here they are:
1. Never go to an Army medic for pneumonia. They will give you a topical lotion for a random skin rash you may have, and never address the hacking cough and phlemmy lungs.
2. Avoid the word "stuff" at all costs. It is vulgar, unspecific, and useless.
3. If you are coming down with a cold, immediately follow this ancient Welsh remedy:
- procure 3 pints of beer
- drink said pints of beer, as quickly as you can
- wrap up in every blanket you can find, and go to sleep
- wake up in the morning, and your cold is gone
So far, some 10 years after having met him, Larry and his advice hadn't steered me wrong yet.
1. Never go to an Army medic for pneumonia. They will give you a topical lotion for a random skin rash you may have, and never address the hacking cough and phlemmy lungs.
2. Avoid the word "stuff" at all costs. It is vulgar, unspecific, and useless.
3. If you are coming down with a cold, immediately follow this ancient Welsh remedy:
- procure 3 pints of beer
- drink said pints of beer, as quickly as you can
- wrap up in every blanket you can find, and go to sleep
- wake up in the morning, and your cold is gone
So far, some 10 years after having met him, Larry and his advice hadn't steered me wrong yet.
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