Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

Abby and TotOne are in the elementary school's little theatre production this year. This is a big thing for my formerly shy Abby, the child we never thought would speak above a whisper, the child who was a PreK dropout because of her debilitating shyness. Since I am a former drama queen (although my family would argue the "former" statement) I am ecstatic over her absolute love for the stage. She's even talking about being in Speech/Drama when she goes across the street next year to the Big School. Be still my heart. Some mothers go berzerkers over cheerleading; I'll be one of those crazed drama mamas.

So when the elementary principal asked me if Tater and I would make a time machine for the play, I said yes, I would, but Tater was too busy and that Paul and I would take care of it. I know, I know, that was rather silly of me, wasn't it? I haven't shaved my legs in weeks because I don't have time, I sleep about 4 hours a night, if that, these days, and there is what I fear to be a permanent imprint of my husband on our couch because I don't even have time to sleep with him these days. So what in the world made me think I had time to construct a time machine? It's the insanity, I'm telling you. I'm utterly farking insane.

I tried to protect my little sister from the drama involved, because I really thought I could do it, but I eventually caved and finally admitted that uhm, I had uhhhhh, "Itoldtheprincipalthatwe'dmakeatimemachinefortheplaypleasedon'tbemad." She was strangely calm, but I think she was using some fancy schmancy breathing exercise to keep from ripping me limb from limb. Then she calmly said, "Let me call Mrs. Princpal and tell her that neither one of us are capable of doing this. I will take care of this and from now on, Kristin, sweetie, JUST SAY NO."

But then even she felt convicted and said she thought we could do it, but if I ever EVER agree to building anything for anyone EVER again, I am totally on my own.

And just for the record, in case you were planning on going out to find one this weekend, refrigerators do not come in boxes anymore. Now you know.

Thank God recliners still do. A friend that works for a furniture store deposited two gigantic boxes on Tater's front driveway last week. I stopped by this weekend to put them in my van, but they are so enormous that I couldn't even get them in the sliding door. So Paul had to get a trailer and haul them home on a trailer because his truck has a cap on the bed and essentially he just has a really long car with a trunk for all the good that bed is. I had to call the principal this morning and tell her that someone with a real truck was going to have to come pick up the time machine at my house tomorrow afternoon because alas, it is not an actual working time machine and I can't just hit the painted-on lever and warp down to the school. Where are Doc Brown and Marty McFly when you need them?

Last night he and I painted the boxes metallic silver. Of course, it was dark outside and I discovered this morning that we didn't do a real bangup job and as soon as I got home from work today touched up the light spots and then painted the insides of the boxes where the door will eventually be.

I also got delightfully high. See, the boxes are pretty deep and I had to lean over the side to paint down in there and yeah, I lost a few brain cells doing it. The best part? In addition to my silver index and middle fingers on my right hand, I also just blew my nose and blew out silver snot.

I'm Kilroy.