I love epic movies. Big, big stories with big, big characters doing big, big things. I’m not too fond of Fantasy, but I made an exception for the MARVELOUS Lord of the Rings series. However, my epic favorites usually involve gladiators or roman-era soldiers. Hence my children teasing me. “Mom loves good looking men in skirts.” ”Oh–Gladiator’s on again. Good looking guy in a dress alert!”
This is funny at home.
However, in the middle of WalMart when my child points to a pro wrestling poster of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and LOUDLY proclaims, “BETCHA’D RATHER SEE HIM IN A DRESS, HUH MOM!” –the humor loses something.
I knew she was referring to his roman soldier-ish garb in The Scorpion King, but the 2 dozen shoppers who stopped dead in their tracks did not.
In an effort to placate my husband conserve energy, I’m utilizing a clothesline this summer. We’ve had one for years, and I’ve never minded using it for things like blue jeans, jackets or throw rugs. But everything that dries on a clothesline gets stiff, and I draw the line at crunchy underwear, socks and towels.
Oh yes, I’ve heard of fabric softeners. Unfortunately one of our girls is allergic to all sorts of soaps and dyes, so fabric softeners are out. Poor kid breaks out in hives if I use anything that’s not dye & perfume free. I’ve even tried washing her stuff separately, but traces remain in the washer and she breaks out anyway. (Ugliness ensues. There is wailing and gnashing of teeth.)
Which leads us back to crunchiness.
I’ve always avoided stiff towels and underwear by pleading the Neighbor Clause. I can’t very well put our underduds out waving in the wind 20 feet from the neighbor’s front door now, can I? And since the husband prefers not to run the dryer for partial loads–my cream colored towels just have to take one for the team and go into the dryer too. Problem solved. Until…
The neighbors moved out, and their place is now vacant. It is the only house with a view of our backyard clothesline. Crap! The Neighbor Clause no longer applies! Unable to come up with a plausible excuse to use the dryer, I hung our unmentionables out this week. Towels, too. Last night, I overheard this conversation:
Tasha, from behind a closed bathroom door: “Ems! Bring me a towel, willya? There’s something wrong with this one–it’s all crunchy.”Sound of linen closet opening and rustling around.
“They’re ALL crunchy!”
“They’re all crunchy? How come they’re all crunchy?”
“I dunno–maybe the closet has a leak. MOOOO-OMMMMM!”
I explained to my progeny that we are doing the environmentally responsible thing and using the dryer less. They looked at me like this:
And then my oldest offered up a solution. “You’re right, Mom. We SHOULD use the dryer less often. So from now on it’s ok if you only put enough stuff in the dryer for me and Ems.”
I am a cheap ass about clothing purchases. I am not frugal, careful with money or a discretionary spender. I am a tightwad. I couldn’t possibly care less what label appears on my clothes as long as they fit fine and don’t cost too terribly much. But that’s me. Clothes are not my thing. If clothes are your thing, that’s fine–I’m a cheapazz with MY wardrobe, that’s all.
My kids know they can have designer clothing–they just have to pay the difference between what it costs, and what She Who Must Be Obeyed is willing to pay. To date, our oldest has elected to do this on occasion. The youngest (Mini Me, the miser) prefers to keep her cash and stick to my budget.
Both of them have more spending money than I do, and I’m proud to say that at 13 and 9, they each have over $1200 saved for their first cars. (Being cheap does have its advantages!)
And yet despite my penny pinching mentality about wardrobe, I have no problem spending great wads of cash on other things. My husband owns a semi. If it breaks, it gets fixed, no questions asked. (To the tune of about $1400 last week, might I add.)
My computer…? My business, Paperweight Productions, creates advertising, graphics and custom business documents. I also do employee newsletters and even web content on occasion. Since my computer is my income, I don’t hesitate to buy whatever it needs, including some very expensive programs. In fact, since my troubleshooting skills are lacking, (sigh) I think I’m the local computer guru’s favorite customer. I’m not sure, but I may have purchased his pool.
So I’m curious. Do you have vast differences in your spending habits? Got a ‘regular’ budget for some areas of your life and a ‘no holds barred’ section as well? Is it common knowledge, or is your significant other a wee bit in the dark about your spending? (Mine has decided as long as my business is self supporting –as his is– he just doesn’t want to know.) heehee!
As I’ve mentioned before, I am not a girlie girl. I was always a kid with scabs on my knees and a perpetual tan. I did go through an unfortunate stage of Girlyism during high school, the 80s big hair fad sucked us all in. (Doggone that Farrah Fawcett anyway.) Other than that foray into the unknown, I’ve basically been immune.
I do OWN a few girlie things, I just don’t USE them. Every once in awhile (mostly when in the throes of a high fever) I’ll purchase a curling iron or brush, use it once, and then stuff it away in a box somewhere. Eventually I get tired of tripping over the thing and give it away.
And then I buy another one.
My latest raging fever purchase involved an expensive combination curling & flat iron. I wasn’t crazy about the price, but I figured it was a multipurpose tool, and all 3 of us girls could use it, so it was a damn fine choice.
Right.
This thing is unlike any other girlie object I’ve ever owned. It heats not in minutes, but in seconds to temps that could smelt iron. Need some solid steel melted down? Wait there, I’ll be right over. This thing could fry the feathers off an evil chicken from 12 yards away–I’m sure of it.
I can’t. I just can’t.
The problem with not using girlie products is that I tend to forget HOW to use them. Note to self: just because you own something doesn’t mean you know how to use it. Sage advice, because we have a chainsaw and welding gear on the premises. I guess I’m lucky I was only screwing up with girlie stuff.
Yesterday I went to put ONE curl in my hair. One. We had to go somewhere, and I had a stubborn cowlick that refused to behave. I rolled up that hair easy as pie and then…I shivered.
That’s right, I shivered. And in so doing I touched my bare forehead with a thousand degree rod of torture. I heard SSSZZZZZZzzzzz! as flesh burnt off my body. I saw bright white lights. I smelled sulphur and heard an evil cackle from behind the shower curtain. I yelled out loud–not sure what I said, but I’m guessing it was profane–and my kids came running. I ripped that thing (and my hair) out of my head and slammed carefully placed it on my meltable Laminate counter top. The girls eyeballed it with suspicion and vowed never to use the evil thing.
Now there’s money well spent.
Today I have a second degree burn on my forehead. It’s gooey, creepy looking and painful. Anybody want a new curling iron?
Andi sent me a link to vacation pics of she and her family all playing in the Florida surf. Nice, huh? Well it should have been, but here’s where it gets juuust a wee bit murky.
First up, I see a shot of three adult males hanging out on the water’s edge with a cute-as-a-button little girl. I instantly recognize the baby as Andi’s granddaughter, and the handsome guy next to her as her son-in-law Greg. Very cute!
But who were the hunks standing beside him?
I eyeballed shoulders and pecs with approval and thought niii-iiice! Greg has some hot friends, yes he does! I was happy to see Hot and Hotter in the next couple of pics as well. But ho–what is this? Hotter, who looks a whole lot like Matt Damon to me, (mmm-hmm!) looks like someone else, too. I can’t…quite…figure out… It’s his eyes, I realize, something about his eyes…
DEAR LORD.
That’s no ordinary studmuffin, that’s my cousin!!! And Hot–could he be…? He IS! That’s Hotter’s brother! I have been oggling boys whose diapers I used to change! Oh iiiiick! Eww! Ptooey!
They were just babies! They were little toddlers running about, or in middle school or something–I forget. They were NOT full grown Matt Damon lookalikes! So how old are they, anyway? I started feverishly doing math in my head.
It’s 2008, I graduated in 1986…I was 17, sister Skinny Rat was 7…roughly the same age, so that means
I am officially older than dirt.
Thanks, Andi. And I was having such a nice morning, too.
We have a dirt track in our front yard. (Yes, I know. I have totally given up on grass.) With all this rain we’ve been getting, my daughters went mud bogging on their quads and returned home COVERED in thick mud. So badly, in fact, that I made them leave their filthy riding gear just inside the front door and go straight to the shower. The next day they washed their quads and made them all clean and shiny. Once dry, Ems (9) put hers carefully away. Tasha (13) promptly announced she was going riding.
Exactly.
It seems that her Dad promised to take the girls on the public trails this weekend. “Mom I have to get it dirty–I can’t go with a clean machine or other riders will think I’m a NEWB!”
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Our cat has figured out how to get into the chicken pen. Any normal family with a normal cat might be concerned about the safety of the birds. But this is no normal family!
He scaled the wooden doorway and dropped down into the pen to find himself surrounded by a flock of inquisitive poultry all larger than him. Immediately, the big wuss hit the fence and began yowling for help. (Our cat is such a pussy.)
This morning the phone rang and our 9 year old answered it. Then I heard her say, “Mr. or Mrs.?” “I’m sorry–did you say Mr. or Mrs.? Oh, he’s not home right now. Can I take a message?”
Our phone is in hubby’s business name, and we constantly get solicitations. Knowing this, I explained to my daughter that the caller was probably not from Michigan, and possibly not from the US–which is why she had a hard time understanding the accent. Ems replied,
“No Mom–she was just real quiet. She didn’t have an accent, she spoke Michi-geez.”
Have you been wondering where I’ve been for the past couple of days? Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. We had a Sisters weekend with Mom and my siblings over in Frankenmuth, Michigan–tourist capital of Christmas. (Yes, it’s June. Bite me.)
Ahh yes, here is our motley crew. That’s Mumsay on the left, followed by sisters Skinny Rat and Paulie Precious. I’m bringing up the rear as the big-eared boy in blue. The only sibling with dignity (Mouse) is suspiciously absent from this photo. No, she didn’t take the picture. She was hiding in the hotel room away from this madness.
Heifer.
Our little mini-vacation had only two rules: No husbands, boyfriends or other man-pets, and no kids. (We did allow a friend along, but she was hilarious and definately not a man-pet, so that was ok.) This was a Ladies Only trip, and we wanted to let loose! We wanted Nightlife…to tear the place UP! (One night we watched Jurassic Park in our comfy Mommy-jammies while eating donuts and Double Stuff Oreos, but shhhhh…don’t tell anyone.)
Hey–our weekend, our brand of fun.
So what else did we do? First up, we went to Bronner’s. About a zillion square feet, Bronners is the largest Christmas store in the world. If you need that special Peruvian nativity scene or personalized Mortician’s Christmas ornament, you WILL find it at Bronner’s. (Although oddly enough we couldn’t find a Computer Geek ornament anywhere. That’s not to say they didn’t have them–the place is so visually overstimulating Jimmy Hoffa could’ve ridden by buck nekkid on a reindeer and we might not have noticed.) Take the virtual tour to see what I mean about the vast size of the joint. (Fair warning: Don’t watch that thing after you’ve had a few drinks. It’s one giant room spin.)
Bronners is one of those places you MUST visit while vacationing in Michigan. Those of us who live here, however, are not quite as enthralled. It was fun for about 20 minutes, and then all the ornaments began to blend. Another 10 minutes, and the perpetual Holly Jolly Christmas music made my left eye begin to twitch. Half an hour later I lost my way out. Thankfully, we found a trail of candy cane crumbs that coincidentally led to the correct parking lot. (Thank goodness–they have several.)
If you ever want to reconnect with your siblings, take a kitschy mini vacation together. We laughed until our sides hurt. We did every tourist-y thing we could think of, from shopping at the outdoor mall (Frankenmuth, Mi shot glasses, anyone?) to eating at Zehnders (world famous evil chicken dinners–and as we all know, the best chickens are lightly seasoned and on the grill). We snapped tourist pics (as evidenced above), bought goofy souvenirs and had a perfectly marvelous time.
We lock the evil chickens in Hell’s Henhouse at night to keep predators from finding them finger lickin’ good. Every morning, the girls let them out so they have the run of a large pen all day. It’s like a dog run but for chickens. A chicken run. (BAhahahaha! I kill me!)
We’ve had 9 chickens for about 2 months now, and I can finally enter their pen without hyperventilating. So this morning, when our children slept in, silly me thought Hey…I’ll let the chickens out so the kids can relax this morning.
I thought I could do it. Really, I did.
Half asleep, coffee cup in hand, I traipsed outside in my jammies to the chicken pen. All I had to do was open their door, secure the run gate and go back into the house. Easy peasy nice-n-squeezie. Or not.
The evil little bastards knew I was coming.
I know they did, because they did not saunter out at a leisurely pace like they do every morning for the kids. Oh no, I opened up that door and those beasts all flew at me at once–squawking and flapping and gnashing their teeth! (Do chickens have teeth? They must…I swear these things had fangs.) I had a flashback to childhood, where a rat in the henhouse + a screaming Kelly led to the same performance–except this time I was trapped inside the pen.
As they flew at me I shrieked and backed up to the fence, my favorite coffee cup sailing through the air. Flying at me like feathered vampires apparently wasn’t enough, because then they surrounded me! Pinned up against the fence, trapped by Satan’s evil horde all hopping up and down and ferociously flapping their wings, I detected an odd sound. At first I thought it was chickens chanting, “Kill the old bat! Kill the old bat!” but then I realized the guttural sound gaining momentum was coming from me. Without even realizing it, I was pleading, “Don’t do that! Don’t do that! Oh please don’t do that!”
Loudly.
–And then just like that, they lost interest and wandered away.
I stood there almost in tears over my own stupidity. Picked up my coffee cup and bruised ego and hightailed it out of the pen wondering if the neighbors were laughing hysterically behind their blinds, of if the kids were watching through the window. I know I was a ridiculous sight.
Funny yes, and Funny no.
I know it’s stupid. I see the humor now, but early this morning I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. No, really–take whatever irrational fear you might possess and multiply it by 9.
A-ATTACHED OR SINGLE? Way Attached. I’ve been married almost 19 years.
B-BEST FRIEND? DH–hands down.
C-CAKE or PIE? Cake. Seriously? Is this a question? BOTH! I’m not real big on frosting, but I love cake. And pie is one of God’s gifts provided it’s not pumpkin, lemon, key lime or pecan.
D-DAY of CHOICE? Whatever day Dh gets home from work. (OTR truck driver)
E-ESSENTIAL ITEMS? Bible, Trusty puter, Car
F-FAVORITE COLOR? Plaid
G-GUMMY BEARS OR WORMS? ICK! No gummies for my tummies.
H-HOMETOWN? You mean originally? Who knows–moved a lot as a kid.
I-INDULGENCE? Frozen Cokes and vanilla ice cream. (Not together.)
J-JANUARY OR JULY? July, by January I’m tired of the snow.
L-LIFE ISN’T COMPLETE WITHOUT… Laughter, Family, God, and Iron Chef. I’ll go with this too, except as Queen of Spaghettios, Iron Chef isn’t on my DVR.
M-MARRIAGE DATE? 11/11/89
N-NUMBER OF SIBLINGS? Mmmmm…technically, it’s hard to say. I have a lot of halves and steps I don’t keep up with very well. (And 3 close sisters who ROCK.) ;0)
O-ORANGES OR APPLES? Apples. I don’t like oranges.
P-PHOBIAS OR FEARS? Birds, balloons and anything gooey that exits a kid’s nose.
Q-QUOTE? “I’ll go with John 3:16. That’s a pretty good one. “For God so loved the world he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall never perish, but have everlasting life.”
R-REASON TO SMILE? My kids–they’re toooo funny!
S-SUPERMAN OR WONDER WOMAN? Wonder Woman. She was like Indiana Jones with that lasso.
T-TAG 5 PEOPLE. I’ll let everybody off the hook this time. ;0)
U-UNKNOWN FACT ABOUT ME? I like to eat saltines crushed up in milk.
V-VEGETABLES? Yes, but not spinach.
W-WORST HABIT? Getting ornery when I’m interrupted.
X-RAY OR ULTRASOUND? I loved my preggo ultrasounds.
Y-YOUR FAVORITE FOOD? My #3: Over easy easy eggs laying atop a layer of cheese, corned beef hash and hash browns. YUM!
Z-ZODIAC SIGN? Don’t believe in astrology, but I’m told I’m a Scorpio.
Have you ever had one of those days where your house seemed overwhelmingly, crushingly, suck-the-wind-right-out-of-you messy? Where kids and pets follow you around, leaving a trail everywhere they go? I’m having one of those days. I cannot concentrate when every room of my house is a disaster. To make matters worse, we had a wind storm and our entire yard is covered with sticks, branches and green oak leaves.
I can’t breathe.
And so today I’ll leave my trusty puter, set aside my job and instead clean up this pigpen. I can’t take it anymore. To my dear home, and all the people I love who have strewn messes from one side of it to the other, I can only say this:
After reading some randomness over at DisIsMyPlace, I’m inspired to do some introspective stream-of-consciousness blogging m’self. Thanks, Betme!
We spent yesterday at a family reunion of sorts with dh’s side of the gene pool. Caught up with lots of folks and met a few new ones, including a whole family whose graduation party about 15 of us crashed. (Don’t ask. I don’t know anyway, and I swear tequila was NOT involved this time.) The hostess kept throwing food at us, so I guess it’s all good.
Anyway.
One of the outlaws we hung with yesterday was dh’s uncle Chas. He lives across the country and we seldom get to see him. I absolutely adore the man and always have. I’m not an overly affectionate person, yet I just want to hug him like Hugo the Snowman from the old Bugs Bunny cartoon. (”I will name him George and I will hug him and squeeze him and pat him on the head…”) After all these years I think I finally know why.
He’s charming.
I’m a sucker for charm. Give me a charming man with a good sense of humor and I’m hooked. (Not that I’m hooked on dh’s uncle. That would be creepy and illegal in every state but Arkansas.) My own dh is the most charming person I know. (Except on the rare occasion when he’s being an ass, but even men need to PMS once in awhile.)
Charm. Humor. Those two qualities hook me in way beyond looks. I am mesmerized by Sam Elliott, who is old enough to be my Grandfather, and Tim Curry whom I suspect is gay. Michael J Fox had the same thing going on back in the day. They’re all average looking men with enough of that Humor/Charm thing going on to knock me right out of my socks. Unlike Colby’s fixation on Matt Damon, I don’t want to schtoop any of them, just hug them until their eyeballs pop out.
I am no longer the coolest Mom in the galaxy. My fashionable turban has partially unravelled and slipped down over my eyes. One luxurious false eyelash came unstuckified and now hangs down my face like a dead caterpillar. And I think I dropped one of my dangly diamond earrings in the pool drain. That, or it fell into my cleavage and may be lost forever. (Or at least until Indiana Jones arrives. He may be the only man alive brave enough to go in there without scuba gear and a blow gun.)
Oh. Like you’ve never dealt with boob sweat.
School is officially over for the summer and my children have discovered two things. A: They still have chores to do, and B: Mom works during the day. That means no loud tv for hours on end, as I work from my trusty desktop which is 4 feet from the television set. (Yes we own a laptop, but I despise the squishy little keyboard and it doesn’t have the cojones to handle the graphics work I do. Besides, why they’d want to watch daytime tv is beyond me, there’s nothing on for kids but Dora the Explorer anyway.)
So here we are–day 2 of summer vacation, at 7 in the morning. My kids are already bored. The fact that they survive 3/4 of the year without tv all day long has slipped their little minds. It’s summer–surely the rules no longer apply.
“Mo-ommm. There’s nothing to dooOOooo.”“It’s 7am! Good gravy–sleep in!”“I don’t wanna sleep in, I might miss something fun.”“Are you having fun?” “No.”“Then sleep in.”
Simple, right?
Oh stop looking at me like that. I hang out with my kids, too. But there are important lessons in here somewhere. Namely, A: There is value in hard work, but certain sacrifices must be made. B: Responsibilities don’t end just because you don’t feel like doing them. And C: God gave you an imagination so you didn’t need to rely on other people and things to entertain you. Write. Draw. Build! (Just kindly don’t take apart anything of mine to build with.)
That’s it. I’ve officially nerked out to sufficient lengths that I’m ready for the rubber room. T’wasn’t the husband of 54 years who drove me over the edge, (Ok we haven’t really been married for 54 years. It’s really 18 and change but on some days it feels like 54. Other days it seems like 82.)
Ahem. As I was saying.
It’s not the husband who made me crazy, nor even the darling cherubs I bore. (”Will you stop LOOKING at me? MO-OMMM! She’s LOOKING AT ME AGAIN!“) Not even the evil chickens performing unholy rites of chicken passage in my backyard. No, my complete unraveling has come to pass due to a simple piece of computer hardware. Namely, a malfunctioning monitor.
Brightness: 0
This is what I see. A pop-up box that appears and disappears at will in the center of my screen. And no amount of button pushing makes it go away for any real length of time. Oh I’ve tried all the tricks–checking connections, cleaning buttons and blowing out vents…and still it mocks me.
Brightness: 0 In the center of my screen, blocking my view.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it said something else, like “Contrast” or better yet, ”Focus.” But I work on the computer. Creativity is my job. When I’m struggling with a project, the last thing I need is for the computer to announce to everyone in the room that I’m none too bright. It’s like having a mean-spirited muse on my desktop. It might as well say, “Boob at Keyboard” or “Dimwit on Desktop.” Seriously. It could at least give me the concession of a higher number.
Just so you know–the title is mine. Call Guinness.
Today is the last field trip of the school year. The school is going to a tiny state park. Again. To see the lighthouse. Again. That they cannot tour due to a decrepit set of stairs. Again. My oldest daughter can recite about half the dusty old speech given by the even dustier 84 year old lighthouse worker.
And it’s rainy, muggy and wet.
Now I’m a firm believer in school attendance and supporting class activities. But come on. I’d rather get my legs waxed with sandpaper and road tar than chaperon that trip one more time. (In crappy weather, no less!) I can only imagine how badly my children don’t want to go.
And so, when they asked, (after conferring with dh, of course), I said they could skip school. The trip takes all day, so they’re not missing any class work anyway. And with that wee little bend in the rules, I’ve become the A-#1 Coolest Mom EVAH! Yes, I know it’s a fleeting title. I’ll be plain ol’ Mom again by noon. But for this brief and shining moment–I’ll take it!
I’d like to preface this post with a warning for all those girlie girls out there. If you’re a shoe or handbag ho’, you might want to exit this blog right now. MJ, are you listening?
As you can surmise from previous blog posts, (or at least from the snappy tank top pic on my Bio page), I am NOT a girlie-girl. I own 4 pairs of shoes and one purse. I bought said purse (seriously MJ–close out this window right now. I don’t want you to swoon and hit your head.) –at a secondhand shop. The zipper on my bag decided to become impossibly stuck in the half open position. Not wanting to fight with it while I ran errands, I bought the first reasonable purse I saw in the place I happened to be in at the time. I’ve had that same bag for 2 years now.
I own jewelry but seldom wear anything but sentimental rings. I don’t like shopping for jewelry any more than I like shopping for clothes, purses or shoes. I wear minimal makeup except on really hot days when I refuse to wear any at all. And talking on the telephone? I’d rather eat my own cooking. (As reigning Spaghettio Queen, you understand the gravity of that statement.)
I have little sisters who are girlie girls. I love that they always look so put-together. Their hair is gorgeous, their outfits fashionable, they smell fabulous and have perfect makeup all the time. Sitting in a bar with two of them once, an ass walked up and asked if I was a lesbian. Apparently–to the severely intoxicated, anyway–I look rather butch next to my ravishing siblings. Wouldn’t that be something to tell my hubby of almost 20 years! “Oh hon, I’ve been meaning to mention…”)
The truth is, I’d love to look as smashing as my sisters–I just can’t pull it off. When I dress up, everything feels itchy and tight and uncomfortable and confining. Give me a pair of blue jeans and a comfy cotton shirt, bare feet and blow-dry-and-go hair and I’m happy. I just can’t stand the maintenance involved with looking incredible. (I’m quite sure my hairdresser who tsk-tsks my salt and pepper ‘do would wholeheartedly agree.)
Am I alone out here? Surely there are other natural tomboys who grew up out there in Cyberland. Give me a shout-out, willya? How girlie are you? Do you sometimes paint your toenails and buy the occasional dress, or hold all of GirlWorld in complete disdain? Do tell. And as for you girlie-girls, I’m curious to hear your side of things, too. Do you ever schlepp around in sweats? Own a pair of paint-splattered cut-offs you keep hidden in the back of the closet?
So let’s hear it: On a scale of 1-10, just how girlie ARE you?
And here she is! Emmy, ready for the dance at school today. You’ll note she’s wearing ‘real’ heels (I’m required by kid law to point out such), and that her trademark ponytail is pulled back into a sleek, grown up style rather than a bouncy throw-it-all-up-and-be-done-with-it look. She even asked me for lip gloss. Lip Gloss? LIP GLOSS? Who is this child, and Where is my rough and tumble daughter??
Oh how I wish I’d taken a picture last night! Then you could understand my confusion. Last night my tomboy girls were outside in the pouring rain, playing 1 on 1 baseball and laughing hysterically. They so rarely enjoy one another’s company that much…I had to let them. That’s how I’m accustomed to seeing this little girl–with smudges and bruises and scabs. I’m not sure who this young lady is, but I’m looking forward to getting to know her.
Ems informed me this morning that the school dance is on Friday, and she’d like a pretty dress to wear. Having known this rough-and-tumble child for all of her 9 years, I gave the only appropriate response:
Lying there in a heap, I opened one eyeball just to see if she was joking. No such luck. MY child–MY mud bogging, tree climbing, snake catching child wants a pretty dress. For a dance.
My mind went into hyper-overdrive. That means we need pretty shoes, and nylons–she’ll need nylons, too. <My heart began thumping rather uncomfortably in my chest.> I think we have some girlie hair ties around here, don’t we? Under the band-aids, maybe? Or behind the wrist splints?
And what if she wants a curling iron? <gulp!> Do we have one of those? I make a mental note to dig under the ironing pile in hopes of unearthing such an appliance. It might be with the regular iron…if only I knew where that sucker’s located.
A dress. A DRESS? Does this mean she’s trying to impress a BOY?
Somebody help me. I have no idea how to raise a girl, and I own two of them.
If you’re singing out loud, you either have very small children or you need someone to talk to. (This could be because you have small children, btw.) If you’re singing in your head, then congratulations. You are a normal, semi well-adjusted human being. And you will spend the rest of the day humming that song because I deem it so. Muahahahahahaha!
Cause he’s got- Hiiii-iiGH HOPES! He’s got–Hiiii-iiGH HOPES–he’s got…!
I know, I know. You think you’ll never forgive me. But really–you’ll be so busy singing that damn song you’ll forget why you were mad at me in the first place. Especially if you live with the aforementioned small children who pick up on the tune and proceed to sing it loudly, 482 times in a row.
And why do I bestow the Rubber Tree Plant Hex on you today?
Because I can.
<Runs out of her own blog, laughing hysterically.>
My Mommy-Senses are tingling. Something is up with my children, and it’s quite possibly no good. My oldest (Tasha-13) is doing everything her little sister (Emma-9) is telling her to do. Everything.
To wit: This morning, Tasha was up to her elbows in dishwater. Emma had just finished sweeping the living room carpet. She batted her eyelashes and said in a syrupy sweet tone, “Oh Tasha. Would you unplug this for me, please?” To my shock, Pup dried off her hands, came into the living room, unplugged the sweeper (plugged in all of 4 feet from her little sister) and went back to doing dishes without a word.
I sat there stunned. On any normal day, Tasha would rather gnaw off her own arm than voluntarily lift a finger to assist her sister with chores. Something was definitely wrong.
Moments later, after winding the cord, Ems called to her sister once more. “Tasha, can you put this away for me, pleeeeease?” Tasha wordlessly dried her hands, and with nary a mean glance, took the sweeper and put it dutifully away. Then she wandered back to her dishes.
I asked the girls what was up. They assured me with too-innocent looking faces that nothing was amiss. Trying a new tactic, I checked my oldest child for a high fever. Finding none, I now know that blackmail is involved. The question is, how deep does this conspiracy go?
Has Tasha done something against the rules and is placating her sister to keep it quiet? If so, it’s nothing major. She’s a good kid and doesn’t cause us much trouble, ever. If this is the case, it also shows that Ems knows how to grab an opportunity by the horns, because Pup ALWAYS feels guilty and eventually fesses up on her own anyway.
–or–
Is Tasha (our spender) once more indebted to Emma (our saver) for cash? Ems has been known to sell her services from time to time to her sister. “I’ll do your guinea pig chores for a dollar. You can pay me later.” This is immensely beneficial to Emma, who offers such conveniences when she feels like it, on chores she enjoys. Once said credit line has reached critical mass, Ems announces she’s ready to collect. Tasha has to fork over a good chunk of hard-earned cash or become Emma’s Slave personal assistant until such time as they’re even again.
Take this one, for example. I’ve tried repeatedly to throw money at Adobe for some very expensive software. They either don’t like money, or they just don’t like MY money, because I’m having an awful time. If you care to read that saga, go right ahead.
After numerous phone calls, I finally had part of what I ordered. Then the system wouldn’t recognize the disc. <bangs head on desk>
I am not a techie. In fact, I have an awful time just toggling between the dvd player and satellite tv. Troubleshooting installation issues is a touch beyond my scope, but I do know how to restart and run maintenance. Did that–didn’t help. Next up–System Restore. (Oh yeah. I cringed, too.)
By fate, bad luck or just plain stupidity, I chose a random restore point. Turned out to be a bad restore point. Ugh. One more time–Sing it! The next time was better, but it messed up all my Outlook settings. Unfortunately, I have 4 email addies and fussy rules about folder designation for each. Pffft! Gone.
Got that all reset, (mostly, anyway), and still the disc was invisible to my puter. After hours of muttering under my breath, I called up my favorite guru. He had the audacity to understand my problem in seconds.
“Uh, Kelly…? Do you remember when I built your computer, and I told you to fork over the extra bucks for a DVD drive?” “Yeah, but we don’t watch DVDs on the computer.” “Yes, but remember how I told you that you NEEDED one, and you insisted you didn’t?” “Yeah, well building a computer is expensive.” “Look at the box the disc came in. What do the requirements say?” <Sheepishly> “A DVD-ROM drive.” I could hear him grinning all the way through the phone line. He’s lucky I need him to install the new DVD drive or I might’ve sent a horny raccoon his way.
Trying to console myself, I decided to install my snazzy new wireless ergonomic mouse and split keyboard. Oooooh yeaaahhh. No more sore wrists for me! It got halfway through the installation and my computer froze. Really froze. Can’t Ctrl-Alt-Delete froze. Can’t hit the Reset button froze! CAN’T SHUT OFF, FROZE!!! In a panic, I pulled the power. Somebody pick that techie up off the floor, willya? He’ll get stepped on down there.
Crossed my fingers, toes and eyes and restarted. So far, nothing appears fried. Whew!
Finally got my new keyboard and mouse up and running and discovered something. My formerly 85wpm flying fingers are now working at a snail’s pace. This thing is gonna take some getting used to.
My whole week has been like this. Everything I touch turns to caca soup. I’m afraid to hug my children–one of their little arms might pop off or something. If you’re reading this blog, SAVE YOURSELF! Exit out of this window and I mean NOW.
Ahhhh Spring. The blooming flowers, the budding trees, the screams of raccoons getting lucky…
Not many sounds in nature are as painful to listen to (or experience, I’m sure) as the noise of raccoons mating. <Those who’ve lived in the country all nod their heads.> for those of you who haven’t, allow me to explain.
Raccoons SCREAM. They don’t make soft, soothing sounds like frogs do when they mate. They don’t chirrup like squirrels, or make a guttural purr like cats. They make an ungodly shriek that sounds like both of them are being filleted alive. It sends chills up your spine even if you KNOW what it is.
Raccoons are mean little beasties. They are not cute, nor are they cuddly, as their big pouffy tails would lead you to believe.
Have you ever watched Animal Planet and heard a jaguar scream? Pfffft! ’Tis a kitty purring compared to the sound of horny raccoons!
Last night we had some getting busy on our front lawn. How delightful. Nothing says FUN like the sound of horrific screaming coming from pitch blackness just outside the window when hubby’s out of town.
I knew it was only mating coons…but I slept with one eye open just in case.
The evil chickens are still residing in our backyard. They’ve shed their fluffball disguises and grown into half feathered, half alligator skin Gollum-like creatures with beaks. They killed off 3 of their own before we put marbles in their pen. It seems they like shiny things, and are willing to commit poultrycide to get them.
My Precioussss…
We haven’t found a horribly mangled body in weeks, so I think we’re in the clear. It seems the Evil Menace get bored and require entertainment. Straw piles to dismantle, feed strewn about, and a mean game of marbles every once in awhile. They want you to think it’s a harmless child’s game, but they’re more like thugs on the corner strong-arming tourists into 3-card Monte. Plotting bastards.
Yesterday, I found a soft pear in the refrigerator. Thinking it might entertain them a short while, I tossed it into their pen. They like a variety of fruit, but turned up their beaks at the pear. Perhaps it was too ripe for their delicate little palettes, which are accustomed to things like perfectly balanced feed, hay, fresh grass and–oh, I don’t know–the still-warm flesh of fellow poultry dumb enough not to sleep with one eye open. Then again, they may have already begun constructing a diabolical plan yet to come.
At dusk, our girls went outside to put Satan’s Minions in for the night. While trying to shoo a wayward beast toward Hell’s Henhouse, Pup stepped backward onto the pear. Horrified, she immediately closed her eyes, lifted her foot and asked Ems, “Did I kill it? Is it dead?”
Recognizing a prime opportunity to mess with her sister’s head, our youngest took on a tone of mourning. “Oh no. I think you killed it. It’s not moving.” Pup was devastated until she opened her eyes to a gooey pear. –Then she was so relieved she forgot to be mad at her little sister.
I’ll preface this by saying I’m spoiled. I know I’m spoiled, I LIKE being spoiled, and I don’t intend to alter the spoiled status anytime soon. I don’t own Gucci or drive an expensive car–it’s much better than that.
I married a man who cooks. (This is a good thing, because in the land of Spaghettios, I am Queen.)
My Grandma (also an excellent cook) has tried to instruct me for years. She’ll take me into her inner sanctum and tell me to only speak in positive tones about my cooking ability–because the pans know. (Grandma may be onto something, or she may just be smoking weed–I’m really not sure.)
As a member of the non-cooking segment of society, I find people assume that because I am female, I take great interest in the culinary arts. Not hardly. I’d rather go to the dentist than cook a dinner for guests. I hate the kitchen, and it hates me. This mutual disdain is our understood modus opperandi. <– Incorrectly spelled, and guess what…? I don’t care about that, either. pffft!
This weekend we visited my husband’s family. His stepsister is an outstanding cook with a professional chef’s kitchen in her house, and she prepared an authentic German meal. I offered my assistance. Silly girl–she thought that meant I knew what the hell I was doing in there. Ummm…..no. But I can stir stuff and wash a mean dish. Eventually she figured that out, and stopped using terms like ‘braise,’ ‘fold’ and ‘parboil.’ Once she started speaking my language, ”Flip that meat over once and stir the shit outta the green stuff,” we got along just fine.
So do tell. Are you one of those Betty Crocker types, or is the kitchen No-Man’s-Land for you, too? C’mon, don’t be shy. I KNOW I’m not the only one!
I love epic movies. Big, big stories with big, big characters doing big, big things. I’m not too fond of Fantasy, but I made an exception for the MARVELOUS Lord of the Rings series. However, my epic favorites usually involve gladiators or roman-era soldiers. Hence my children teasing me. “Mom loves good looking men in skirts.” ”Oh–Gladiator’s on again. Good looking guy in a dress alert!”
As I’ve 
We lock the evil chickens in Hell’s Henhouse at night to keep predators from finding them finger lickin’ good. Every morning, the girls let them out so they have the run of a large pen all day. It’s like a dog run but for chickens. A chicken run. (BAhahahaha! I kill me!) 
He lives across the country and we seldom get to see him. I absolutely adore the man and always have. I’m not an overly affectionate person, yet I just want to hug him like Hugo the Snowman from the old Bugs Bunny cartoon. (”I will name him George and I will hug him and squeeze him and pat him on the head…”) After all these years I think I finally know why. 
old enough to be my Grandfather, and 
I am no longer 
I’d like to preface this post with a warning for all those girlie girls out there. If you’re a shoe or handbag ho’, you might want to exit this blog right now. 
And here she is! Emmy, ready for the dance at school today. You’ll note she’s wearing ‘real’ heels (I’m required by kid law to point out such), and that her trademark ponytail is pulled back into a sleek, grown up style rather than a bouncy throw-it-all-up-and-be-done-with-it look. She even asked me for lip gloss. Lip Gloss? LIP GLOSS? Who is this child, and Where is my rough and tumble daughter??
Take this one, for example. I’ve tried repeatedly to throw money at Adobe for some very expensive software. They either don’t like money, or they just don’t like MY money, because I’m having an awful time. If you care to 
Raccoons SCREAM. They don’t make soft, soothing sounds like frogs do when they mate. They don’t chirrup like squirrels, or make a guttural purr like cats. They make an ungodly shriek that sounds like both of them are being filleted alive. It sends chills up your spine even if you KNOW what it is.
Plotting bastards.
I’ll preface this by saying I’m spoiled. I know I’m spoiled, I LIKE being spoiled, and I don’t intend to alter the spoiled status anytime soon. I don’t own Gucci or drive an expensive car–it’s much better than that.
