idioglossia

Lately I've been pretty happy about the way Sam & Lily have been getting along. I was a little stressed for a while about him freaking out when she was mobile - grabbing his toys and whatnot - but so far he is taking it pretty well. So well, in fact, that I'm getting a bit edgy about the two of them. He talks to her a lot, asks her what is wrong, gives her toys, etc.. but they seem to be communicating on a much different level now. On Friday, he was baby-talking (or what sounded like baby talk) to her in the back seat of the car - and next time I looked back, the two of them were holding hands and smiling at each other... cute right? Just wait. Yesterday I heard him talking in the living room, and when I walked back in the two of them looked up at me, got quiet, AND THEN BOTH TURNED AWAY FROM EACH OTHER. Sam walked away, and Lily crawled over to the couch. Now I know I'm tired, but I swear they were talking about me. I got this Children of the Corn feeling that I just couldn't shake, and think they may have developed their own secret language. It seems that I have no other choice but to somehow learn their secret babble-tongue, and decipher their plans. At the moment I'm not entirely sure, but I think yogurt is involved.
On an equally disturbing but totally unrelated note, I am completely destroying my hands. Sunday morning I was rushing around setting up for yet another early morning catering gig, and I cut the tip of my finger off. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to leave a fairly good blood trail through the kitchen over to the sink. The good thing is, little cuts tend to hurt a lot, and the bigger ones are just annoying... why? I have no idea. I cut my whole pinky knuckle off down to the bone once while cutting up a peking duck - and it sucked - but I'll take that over a bad paper cut any day. Just the thought of a piece of paper sliding over my skin... eeew. Anyway, I wrap it up, put some tape around it, and I'm on my way. When I get to the gig, there is a bunch of prep to do - but first I throw all of the quiche in the oven and set it at 325, figuring in 45 minutes when I need to plate them, they'll be perfect. I keep working, cleaning as I go, and 45 minutes later I open the oven and realize that all of the towels I brought are wet, and I'm cooking in a house without anything that looks remotely like a potholder. Sigh. I suppose never cooking is a good reason to hire a caterer, but seriously people, you're killing me. In a rush, I quickly weigh my options... wet towels? No, they'll burn your hands anyway, and get water on the crust... Dining room napkins? Too many people milling around. Chef coat sleeves? Sleeves might get stains (have to look pretty), and anyone who walks in might wonder why I'm using my clothes... Well, I figure, lets just try speed... I'm a little hesitant at first... stay centered Joe... worse things have happened... maybe she'll pay in cash, its all good... Deep breath, and I go - grab the first pie plate, toss it on the counter.... Nothing. Do another... nothing. No smoking flesh, no bubbling blisters, nothing. Apparently, I have leathered my fingertips just enough to withstand a 325 degree pie plate. Will I try something hotter? No. No I will not. Will I be a dumbass and not bring enough towels next time? No. No I will not.
On the bright side, I've decided that I'm James Bond. Think about my resume when I contact the CIA - Average Joe that will blend into any crowd, hands completely scarred nubs that will leave no discernible fingerprints, profile that will render me virtually invisible in front of a strategically placed Alfred Hitchcock poster, fluent in child babble language akin to the dialect used by Navajo code talkers in WWII. Seriously, I'm marketable. With the lack of fingerprints alone I'm the freakin Scarlet Pimpernel...