The End

Legal disclaimer: Today's potluck is not shorter than average.
Instead, the words "travel sized" could loosely be interpreted as
"travel themed".

Now with more buttons!

…but probably won’t get one because, hello! it’s May and I’m busy.

• In one week we had three big field trips, including a six-hour train trip to Seattle, a fish dissection class on the Oregon coast, and an evening in Portland for the opera: The Barber of Seville (Figaro-Figaro-Figaro!). Two of these events happened on the same day.

• I thought Shasta was dying.  She wasn’t eating and spent much of her time lying around the house.  Turns out she didn’t like her new brand of dog food.  I switched her and wha-la: she’s back to her old self, chasing squirrels along the fence line.
• Newt ran a local one-mile race for kids.  We are now training for a 5k – her idea.  She confided to me that she likes racing, but doesn’t really like running.  When I told her we didn’t have to do the race, she got all indignant and rolled her eyes at me like I was some kind of raving lunatic.

• Despite the running, I am getting fat-ish. Stop Dieting, Start Potlucking

If you feel you must have a full post on any of these subjects, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.

Newt left this morning for a three day camp-out with her girl scout troop.  I had planned to accompany her, until she *ever so politely asked if I would please stay home.  Turns out she is ready for some adventure on her own.
Don’t tell her, but I was ready for some adventure on my own too. Apparently, adventure for me means Potluck.

Besides, who could eat s’mores after viewing this?

*I feel the need to explain that I was not being sarcastic there.  Newt really did ask respectfully and politely for me to please stay away from her camp-out.

Attention perverts: I’m afraid I do not have what you are looking for when you google:

• mom without her clothes
• brady bunch girls wearing pantyhose
• I could not watch my moms colleague pant

In all fairness, that last one might be from a pet lover and Mom’s colleague could be a thirsty dog.  If so, I apologize for calling you a pervert.

However, to those of you who googled:

• bad home perm
• getting a home perm
• permed mullet
• permutation frantically perms

Sadly, you’ve come to the right place.  But I was 12!  Can’t we all just get over it?  (By the way, not to get all grammar policey, but you should have put a hyphen in perm-mutation.)

It’s out of control.  Clean laundry in a pile on the floor (shoved off the bed last night).  A load in the washer, another in the dryer, yet somehow the baskets are still overflowing onto the floor.  We have three people in this family – how is this situation even possible?

I really should be doing my laundry.

May all your s’mores be murder-free.

But guess what internetz:

That’s right, *y’all, Heidi is jumping in on the Potluck action.

*Can an Oregonian pull off a y’all online? Please?

Let’s begin with a couple of definitions:

Potluck – Whatever food happens to be available for a meal, especially when offered to a guest
Potluck – random, unorganized thoughts smashed together into one post and branded as a potluck

How about some background music?

I-I-I wanna rock-n-roll all niiii-iii-iight
and potluck ev-er-eee day…
No?
How about this?
We will, we will, Potluck – Potluck
everybody
We will, we will, Potluck – Potluck
Hmm… maybe we’ll just go without music this time, eh?

And now it’s time for a little story:

On Friday, Newt and I had plans to spend the day at Oregon’s Museum of Science and Industry with some friends. She packed our lunch – peanut butter for her, “surprise” for me. Several times throughout the morning she asked if I was excited for my lunch. When it came time to eat, I learned that “surprise” was a turkey and provolone sandwich with mayo and dijon on whole wheat. Sounds great, doesn’t it?
Except… I had my doubts about the turkey. It had been in the fridge for a long time.
When confronted with the choice of eating questionable turkey or disappointing Newt, I chose to disappoint her. It was only a sandwich, right? She’d understand.
But then I looked at her expectant face, waiting for me to take a bite.
That is how I came to spend all of Friday evening throwing up.
The end.

To the reader who found me, just today, by googling “simple Christmas letter to copy”, I say, “You have almost eight months, I think you can come up with something original.”
To both of you who googled “Heidi is not real” “I can see why you might be confused

but, I really am real.”
See:

Who would fake that?

How about something new:

I wore my pajamas all day today.

And now for another potluck slogan: Potluck melts in your mouth, not in your hands.

What’s up with Heidi’s laundry?
Baskets full, but not overflowing. One load in the dryer. Nothing else to fold or put away.

May all your potlucks be microbe free.

Today was a sad day at our house. Bob, the biggest and best of Newt’s pet stick bugs, died. She had been my girl’s favorite: the one she carried around on her arm, read to and watched movies with.
I know that Bob was only an insect, but she was Newt’s insect and she was loved.

We buried her under the lilac tree between cloud bursts. Newt cried for Bob. I cried for Newt.
I tried to speak comforting words to my little girl as we worked together to find a suitable rock to mark the tiny grave.
“You loved her so much, sweetie. And you took really good care of her.”
Great tears rolled down both of our cheeks.
“Mom, stick bugs are easy. You hardly have to do anything.”
At that point the ridiculousness of our bug funeral set in and the laughter came. We wrapped our arms around one another and giggled through our tears.
Laughter.
Tears.
Laughter.
Tears.
Laughter-tears.
We returned to the house just as the rain began to fall again.
On the way to the kitchen for a snack, we passed the cage that holds Bob’s sisters, also all named Bob.

“Bob is dead”, I said. “Long live Bob.”

Call #1
Heidi: Hi, this is Heidi. I got a rock chip in my windshield this weekend and it has turned into a huge crack. I just wanted to verify my deductible for glass breakage.
Insurance Lady: I can check on that for you. Hmmm… yes, I see it here. Your deductible is $500.
Heidi: $500? For glass breakage? Not $100?
Insurance Lady: Yes ma’am.
Heidi: Really?
Insurance Lady: Uh-huh. Is there anything else I can do for you today?
Heidi: No. Thank you.
Insurance Lady: You have a nice day now.
Heidi: Ok.
Goodbye $280 for a new windshield.

Call #2
Heidi: I just wanted to see if Newt’s prescription is ready.
Pharmacy Lady: Let me check. Yes, it’s ready.
Heidi: Can you tell me how much that will be?
Pharmacy Lady: Looks like it will be $400.
Heidi: !
Pharmacy Lady: Wait – you had a coupon from the dermatologist. It will be…$375.
Heidi: For eczema ointment? Wow.
Pharmacy Lady: Oh, I’m sorry. It looks like this was not run through your insurance correctly. Do you mind holding?
Heidi: [relief] No. Not at all.
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
Pharmacy Lady: Thank you for holding. I ran that through your insurance. And then I took off the $25 for your coupon.
Heidi: Great. How much do I owe?
Pharmacy Lady: $340.
Heidi: Um, nevermind.
Heidi is calling the dermatologist back for an alternate prescription. Tomorrow.

Call #3
BlueCross Man: BlueCross of Maryland. How can I help you?
Heidi: Hi. I just got a bill from a doctor. Services were rendered three years ago. Why it took him that long to send it, I’ll never understand, but I digress. It appears that this was never billed to our insurance – though the doctor insists – emphatically! – that it was. He may have also accused me of looking for “charity” when I asked him to verify that the bill was submitted to you for payment, but that is not your concern is it?
Anyway, we are no longer insured by you, but could you look this up for me anyway?
BlueCross Man: Sure. What is your ID number?
Heidi: No idea. This was from three years ago, and I have also moved 3000 miles in that time. The ID card is long gone. Can I give you my Social Security number?
BlueCross Man: Sure. … That didn’t work. How about your husband’s? … Nothing. Old address? … Husband’s employer at the time? … You no longer seem to be in our system. Unless you can come up with an ID number, I’m afraid we can’t help you. Here’s an idea. Maybe you could call the Provider and ask him to look up the ID number on your chart. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.
Heidi: Sigh.
Heidi has decided not to make any more phone calls. Ever.

Ooh, look. Pretty.