So the other day I took Tootie in for her physical.

Oh my.

Once your kids are in grade school, the doctor asks them lots of probing questions:

How much milk do you drink every day?

Do you watch a lot of television?

Who lives with you at home?

Oh, great. Way to get the kids to narc on their parents.

By the last question, I was incredibly tempted to answer for Tootie.

Who lives at our house? Oh, it’s me, Tootie, the E-man and my crack-dealing boyfriend. Well, when he’s not in jail, I mean.

I know, I know. Doctors need insight into the kids habits and home lives. But I found the whole experience to be, oh, I don’t know … kind of judgey?

Anyway.

Is anyone else with school-age kids plumb wore out yet?

The kids are having a blast — parties, field trips, dance recitals, talent shows, field day, etc … Me, I’m mentally drained.

Each morning I’m trying to remember who needs a beach towel that day or trying to figure out if I can sneak out of work three or four times for various events or calling friends to ask exactly what time dress rehearsal is again exactly?

The talk among educators and lawmakers these days is whether schools should run year-round since, you know, we don’t send our kids out into the fields these days.

Note to educators and lawmakers: These days, summer vacation isn’t needed for the kids. It’s the PARENTS who want a reprieve.

But — should I make through this week without losing my sanity — just one more full week of craziness awaits. Then it’s time for fireflies, swimming and family vacation!

I’m so ready for leisurely mornings (no race to get the kids off to school), lazy weekends at the pool, snow cones, sandals and fireflies.

We had a busy weekend. Our Girl Scout troop toured the Pulaski Humane Society. (The girls were enthralled. And they managed to wear out a litter of lab pups!) After that, Tootie and I headed over to a party held in celebration of my friend Amy’s new job. The kids had a ball playing outside while I got to play with TWO adorable 3-month-olds.

Sunday, Tootie and I took Daisy to the dog park, where our baby dog romped happily with new friends. She also wallowed in a mud pit. The most amusing moment, however, was when a male Aussie/border collie attempted to … er … perform an indecent act upon her. Poor Daisy looked so alarmed and horrified that everyone watching laughed. I believe her dignity suffered a blow. (Yes, she’s spayed. No worries there.)

This morning, as I tried to rouse Tootie, Hubs walked into her bedroom cackling.

“Have you seen the carnage?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“The kitchen. Have you been in the kitchen?”

“No, why?”

“The puppy had a busy night.”

Uh-oh.

“What’d she do?”

More evil laughter.

“Oh, you need to see it for yourself. There’s really no way to describe it.”

This bit of information actually motivated Tootie to leave her bed.

Together, we headed to the kitchen.

“Wow,” Tootie said.

Yeah, wow. Let me describe what Miss Daisy did last night after realizing the pantry door was open:

Tore open a bag of spaghetti and scattered it across the floor.

Ate six bags of fruit snacks.

Ate four brownies.

Ate half a row of Ritz crackers.

Left the packaging and assorted debris all over the kitchen floor. The dog isn’t exactly discreet.

Turns out that when Hubs found her this morning, she was attempting to open a package of cornbread mix.

So over the weekend, the E-man found a large, shiny black spider in his room.

After he and Tootie studied it, they wisely decided to consult Hubs on the matter. (Normally these two love catching and keeping all manner of creatures. In this case, they must have sensed evil.)

Hubs strolled into the room, shoe in hand and froze.

Now the Hubs and I are not spider fans. I think it’s all the legs. Or maybe the fangs. And tarantulas? *shudder* No spider should be … furry. Ick.

But the reason Hubs stopped in his tracks Sunday was because the thing on the E-man’s carpet looked very much like a black widow.

Sure enough, when Hubs flipped it over — after killing it — the spider sported the red telltale hourglass shape.

He wisely did not share this realization with the kids because we would like  to ensure that the E-man does not become a regular in our bedroom.

But after some frantic Googling, he took the kids to Lowe’s and commenced buying poison.

By the time I got home (I was at a Zumba class while all of this transpired), furniture had been moved, mattresses overturned and windows opened.

Let’s just say that Hubs is very thorough.

I’m not a fan of pesticides.

In this case, however, I am counting on their purported effectiveness.

Any tips on hunting down black widow nests? This is the first one we’ve found in the six years we’ve lived in this house!

So several months ago, new neighbors moved in.

With a taco truck.

That may not mean much to native Arkansans, but to a Texan, the taco truck represents, well … heaven.

Tonight, Hubs and I finally wandered over, lured by the smell of meat on the grill.

We ended up staying for 30 minutes, tasting the beef and getting details on where to find the taco truck.

And oh … the homesickness.

I miss true Tex-Mex food.

I don’t care what all the Arkansas restaurant reviewers say — what you get here isn’t what you get in Texas. It’s just not.

And tonight, as I licked my fingers and passed a plate back and forth with Hubs, I remembered … “Oh, yeah. This is the real deal.”

I’m so happy to have neighbors who remind me of home.

I love the Latino culture. Family first. Food. Celebrating.

I totally get all of that.

I will absolutely be chasing this taco truck. If, that is, I don’t manage to arrange for a dinner-to-go deal.

And if I find out they do breakfast tacos? They’ll find me parked in their driveway at all hours of the night.

What a lovely evening. What a heavenly appetizer. And what promise — to have neighbors who can take me back to my childhood in seconds!

So today.

Soon after awakening, I noticed this weird … stripe … on my forearm. It was brownish. Kind of shiny.

I took a shower and half of it peeled away.

Odd, I thought. Perhaps I should have this checked out.

OK, that’s the varnished version.

Reality: OMG, I have that flesh-eating bacteria thingy-infection! WILL BE DISFIGURED AND POSSIBLY DEAD WITHIN 24 HOURS!!!! HELP ME!!!!

So I called my family physician and made an appointment.

By the time I arrived at work, however, I was having second thoughts.

“What does this look like to you?” I asked my friends Amy and Cindy (Mom on a Wire).

“A burn,” Amy declared. “Did you get drunk and try to curl your hair?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Like, in college.”

Cindy commenced Googling.

“I don’t know, Cathy. Maybe you should keep that appointment. I mean, I don’t want to freak you out, but some staph infections do peel.”

Of course, I then began Googling and promptly diagnosed myself with A.) Scalded-skin staph or B.) Flesh-eating bacterial infection.

The photos were horrifying.

“I’m keeping my appointment,” I informed my friends.

And so at 2 p.m. I was summoned by a nurse back to an exam room.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” she asked.

“This!” I declared, brandishing my arm.

She did not look impressed.

Minutes later, my doctor entered.

He looked at my decaying flesh, then said, “This looks like a burn.”

“But I haven’t burned myself,” I said.

“No, it looks like some sort of friction burn. Like rope. Or, maybe … carpet?”

At this point, most patients would realize that their doctor thinks they’ve been engaging in some sort of S&M sex.

But me?

Well, I remained adorably naive. Ha.

“Well, I lug a lot of stuff around. Maybe it was one of my tote bags.”

My doctor looked skeptical.

“Have you been rappelling?” he inquired.

hahahahahahahahaha

“Of course not!” I replied.

At which point he dropped the subject, slathered my arm in some cream and told me I did not have staph.

Only upon leaving the office did I realize: Ohhhhhh.

My doctor thinks that either A.) Hubs and I are employing rope in our marital bed or B.) We decided to take it to the floor.

Am forever mortified.

Am pretty sure it was my gym bag. But I have to confess to wondering if I’m doing things in my sleep.