what happened after we played with dumptrucks in the snow

Today we talked about poo-ing in pants and when that was being all wrapped up (and I didn't even need to get my hands dirty) Monstruo Uno claimed Monstruo Dos had eaten the top off of a floss stick. You know, the reusable kind where you change out the little flossing head. I took the child onto my lap, it's best to treat these cases with precaution, I'm sure, as I don't have any previous experience in this matter, and asked him a few diagnostic questions.
-Did you eat the floss head?
-yeah
-Did you swallow it?
-Yeah
-Did you really swallow it?
-no (or it could have been yeah, sometimes they sound the same)
-Is it in your throat?
-yeah
-Do you know what a throat is?
-no
I pointed at the middle of my neck saying, "This is your throat, this is your throat," then he started poking my neck as well. So I poked his neck back. Then he cuddled up to me and I was so charmed by this goat-like baby and nobody was choking.

youuuuuuuuuu, youuuuuuuuu, youuuuuuuuuuuuu

REALLY France!!! Is this necessary?!?!
Il ferme la porte de la ferme d'une main ferme.

Felicitations ma cousine et beau-cousin. Feliz Navidad.

Sometimes I feel as though I love what I'm studying, but what I'm asked to project-up for class is prodding me up a jungle-gym, baking cupcakes when cupcakes make me sick. Last week I was supposed to write up 12 story proposals. I have one down. Still, just one and no others are following. Read the newspaper, internet, take a walk, then write 12 story proposals. Oh no. Oh no no no no.
Alors, I've been reading the internet, my favorite sites, and what I find is my online literary journal (McSweeneys) has dedicated itself for the present time to the memory of David Foster Wallace. I've never read a word by the man, but I'm reading about him now. I'm captivated by all of the ways he touched these people's lives, this author and professor, and yet he committed suicide at age 46. How often do we not see the little things we do to make a difference in others' lives. He, he he...which gives me an idea for another story. O inspiration what a fickle mistress you are.

I've been remembering how much the bathrooms in the homes here all have the same aura. A compeletely different aura than the midwest I grew up in. Maybe because these homes were made in the 40's rather than the 1880's? (Indoor plumbing, no way!) Or maybe tis the bathroom windows that are actually openable, meant to be opened, and frequently have no screens. Probably tis because they have not been homes swaddled to boot through a blizzard. I will try to phonetically spell this out in Russian for you: étta interry-ace-na.

C'est l'histoire d'un ver vert qui va boire un verre vers Anvers.
OOOhhhhhh....