For My Children, On The First Day Of May

My Dear Lovelies,

Today is the first day of May. You have a scant four weeks of school left. You are in the final count down. (Sorry for the '80s ear worm, btw) There are about 20 days left in which you must pack up your things and tote them to school. This means, by my calculations, that you have already been packing and toting for about 8 months. Or approximately 32 weeks. Or somewhere around 160 days, give or take a snow day. That is many, many days, my sweets.

What I'm saying is, you've had lots of days to practice at being organized. You've had quite a bit of time to get your, um, "stuff" together. They say it takes 30 days to form a habit, so you've had the opportunity to make or break 8 different habits.

My question for you is, why isn't Remembering All The Things I Must Have With Me At School In Order To Properly Get Through My Day one of them?

Why, for the love of Pete, am I still receiving frantic ALL CAPS texts shortly after you have left the house for the day? Why, am I still asked to bring x to school at y time? I have never liked algebra and these different equations which I am being asked to solve before I have even had a cup of coffee make me want to weep.

Today, for instance, I was asked to please, pretty please (Gosh, you're pretty, mom!) bring a jar to school. Before first period. Shortly after that, another child asked if I was feeling nice. That sent my spidey senses to tingling, because I try really, really hard to always be nice. But I knew something else was going to follow that sentence. And really? It left me feeling not so nice.

Do I look like a Fed Ex driver? Nope. I drive a crappy, white minivan with a sliding door that refuses to budge and a piece of red electrical wire holding up my cracked front bumper and an odor of rancid french fries that permeates the interior. (This is not a rant complaining about my van. I will drive Blanca until she dies and I will love her for taking all the abuse we have heaped upon her, lo these past 10 years. This is merely to compare and contrast the differences between what I drive and what a Fed Ex driver drives.) Do I look like a UPS delivery person? Nope. Brown is so not my color. It makes me look washed out. My point here, in case for some reason you are unable to suss it out, is that I am not paid for or compensated in any way for making deliveries.

And no. Texting me that I'm so pretty or I'm the best mom ever do not count as compensation. At least not in the context in which they are being used.

I have driven to school in the pouring rain. I have driven to school on icy roads. I have driven to school in the snow. I have driven to school during the peak of the high school rush hour! You have no idea how I have endangered my life for you! I have run to the school in my pajamas. I have run to the school in exercise gear. I have run to the school with no makeup. The secretaries have seen me without makeup almost as much as your father--and we've been married over 20 years! Those poor women don't get paid enough to have to encounter the Crypt Keeper as often as they do. I'm begging you, don't worry about my pride; think of the secretaries.

I love you more than all the sand on all the beaches on the planet. But hear me now and know that I say this because I love you and want what's best for you: I am not afraid to let you fail. Many of life's greatest (and hardest) lessons come from failure. I speak from experience. I know you are all smart and resourceful and resilient and you will be okay. Even if you don't have x at y time. I have worked hard for you and with you all year. You are in the homestretch. You are nearly there. You can do it! I'm sure of it. I will continue to cheer you on from the sidelines until you reach the finish. But me? I'm out. Dunzo. Finished. I have responded to my last ALL CAPS EMERGENCY PLEASE DELIVER text. Unless your hair is on fire and I am the only person left on the planet who can help you, DO. NOT. PUSH. SEND.


Now, my preshus snowflakes, have a great day. Only 21 non-emergency-text, non-please-bring-me, non-are-you-feeling-nice-you're-so-pretty more days to go!

Love,
Mom

Ugh: A Post-Migraine Poem

It's a new morning,
my migraine has fled,
I look around the house
and am filled with dread.

The cat was down
 for just one day
and in that time
the mice did play.

The dishes are dirty
 and stacked in a heap,
the laundry is a mountain
stinky and steep.

There are millions of socks
strewn about the floor,
and smudgy dog nose prints
all over the door.

The island is stacked
with papers and stuff,
the dog hair blows about
like so much brown fluff.

The tables and couch
of the family room
are littered with crap
adding to the gloom.

The people that live here
are rabid feral goats
that haven't even a clue
about how to hang up a coat.

Toothpaste globs dot
every mirror and sink,
the garbage is overflowing
and starting to stink.

The fridge is empty
and the goats all whine
that there's nothing to eat,
on what will they dine?

I survey the sorry
state of this place,
and I scratch my head
and I grimace my face.

Where to start? What to do?
With which task to begin?
This is a losing battle.
There's no way to win.

But I know that the answer
lies in my brainy little head:
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"
So I'm going back to bed.

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

*Decide that today is finally the day to work on lining the wire shelving with adhesive tiles in the pantry. It's been put off long enough.

*Set your mouth in a grim line of determination and set your mind to the task.

*Gather tools.

*Realize that utility knife blade is dull. Understand that dull blades lead to accidents and go on hunt for replacement blades.

*While hunting for replacement blades, trip over vacuum cord and decide that putting away the vacuum would be a good idea. Someone could get hurt.

*Notice while winding up vacuum cord that the Dumb Dog has distributed her hair everywhere yet again and decide that the downstairs could use a quick once over with the Dyson before putting it away.

*Start to vacuum.

*Stop vacuuming every 6 seconds to pick up a stray sock or shoe.

*Realize the futility of vacuuming without first having picked up the eleventy billion stray shoes and socks.

*Smack self in forehead.

*Mutter things about living with feral goats disguised as children.

*Pick up eleventy billion stray shoes, socks, hoodies, pens, pencils, coins, remotes, games controllers.

*Resume vacuuming.

*Finish vacuuming and put vacuum in closet.

*Notice that the Dumb Dog looks awfully warm and snuggly lying there in the sunshaft on the floor.

*Go over and lie down next to the dog.

*Talk to the dog in some weird form of baby talk that only dogs understand and rub her face.

*Notice that with every stroke of your hand, enough fur flies off of dog to completely undo all the vacuuming you just did.

* Shake fist in the air.

*Pet dog again and tell her you wish she was hairless.

* Get up and notice that the kitchen table has not been wiped down after breakfast.

*Head to the sink and grab the dishrag.

*Notice a funky smell emanating from said rag.

*Bring rag closer to nose and inhale deeply.

*Reconfirm that rag is definitely funky.

*Shudder while trying not to gag.

*Get new rag from drawer and place on counter.

*Gather up dishrag, towels, and hand towel from downstairs bathroom and run them upstairs to the laundry.

*Switch out clothes from the washer to the dryer.

*Fold a load of clothes.

*Start a new load in the washer.

*Go around to every upstairs bedroom shutting off every overhead light, table lamp, and closet light.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Mutter things about living with children who have no sympathy for drowning polar bears.

*Head back downstairs.

*Notice that the spider who has taken up residence in the foyer has built, yet again overnight, a stunning tangle of webs from the chandelier to the stairs to the doorway to the entry table.

*Get vacuum back out of closet.

*Attempt to vacuum the spider's transport routes.

*Put vacuum away.

*Notice the mess in the living room that the two eldest children left when they were putting together their school supplies.

*Remember that these children swore they picked up after themselves.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Make mental note to go over what "picking up" means with two eldest children.

*Pet Dumb Dog who is now making circles around your legs and whining.

*Realize that Dumb Dog needs to go outside.

*Take Dumb Dog outside.

*While strolling with dog, notice that your Garden of Neglect has more tomatoes that need picking.

*Go inside and take dog off leash.

*Grab basket and head back outside to Garden of Neglect.

*Pick eleventy billion tomatoes.

*Smack self in forehead and ask yourself again the need for three tomato plants when only one person in the house eats tomatoes.

*Curse self for being greedy about tomatoes.

*Take tomatoes inside and wash them.

*Notice overabundance of tomatoes on counter.

*Decide to make salsa.

*Check fridge for jalapeño peppers and cilantro.

*Realize that not only are there no jalapeños or cilantro, there is no sour cream for dinner.

*Decide to start a grocery list.

*Grab a pen.

*Scribble with it in mad circles on the paper and realize that it doesn't work.

*Throw it away and try another.

*Repeat this process at least 8 more times.

*After writing grocery list, notice Post-It note on cupboard about thank you notes.

*Move thank you notes to a prominent spot in the kitchen so that they can get written in a timely manner.

*Laugh at yourself, because it's way past timely.

*Remind yourself that even a late thank you note is better than none at all.

*Say a little prayer that the receivers of the notes feel the same way.

*Notice your cell phone.

*Wonder if you have any lives in Candy Crush.

*Decide that it won't hurt anything to just check.

*Play 5 rounds of Candy Crush, check email, nose around on Facebook, admire photos on Instagram, check the weather forecast, see if you have any moves on Words with Friends, look at the kids' school websites for information on upcoming meetings.

*Notice that 45 minutes has passed since picking up the phone.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Curse self for falling into a black hole of time-suck.

*Realize you heard the dryer buzzer 15 minutes ago.

*Run upstairs and switch out laundry and fold a load.

*Come back downstairs and notice that the reusable grocery bags are still sitting next to the fridge where you put them a week ago.

*Gather up bags and take out to van.

*Open up van door and get knocked backwards by the funk.

*Go on a search and destroy mission for the source of the funk, even though you've done this for three days running with no success.

*Grab a few stray pieces of trash, an asthma inhaler, two pairs of sunglasses, a hoodie and an umbrella while you are on the search mission.

*Decide mission is futile and spray Febreeze around the car like a teenage boy applying Axe.

*Dispose of garbage.

*Put other random items where they belong.

*Walk by computer and decide to check a few blogs for inspiration for a project idea you have in mind.

*Get sucked into other people's creativity.

*Realize that 20 minutes has passed.

*Shake fist in air.

*Curse self for not only not being as creative as the people whose blogs you just read, but also for being weak-willed for stopping at the computer when you have a job to do.

*Wrinkle brow and wonder, what was that job I was supposed to do again?

A Fractured Five Senses Poem

My kids have all written what is called a five senses poem while in elementary school. It's not a poem that rhymes, rather one that focuses on using your five senses to describe your surroundings. I shall attempt to replicate such a poem with a Que Sara Sara spin.

Home:

I see: dirty socks lying like dessicated worms in crumpled heaps on the floor; pale tumbleweeds of dog fur that roll across the floor with the breeze; piles of notebooks, keys, and sunglasses that make an end-of-school-year mountain on the kitchen island.

I hear: the wet, slurping sound of the dumb dog's tongue repeatedly licking a spot on her dog bed; the thunderous kawunking thump of the washing machine on spin cycle, sounding like a Blackhawk helicopter in my laundry room, signaling the end of its useful days; the squawks and screeches of yet another battle between siblings over the blaring television.

I smell: the bitter, but lovely smell of mama's little helper coffee brewing; the stale, heavy, still somewhat appetizing aroma of bacon that was cooked days ago; a slightly musty, warm Frito odor coming off the dog as dozes in the sunbeam by the door.

I taste: the bittersweet hotness of the cappuccino as I guzzle it down while signing school papers; the bright, minty flavor of the sweet peppermint gum I chew to keep coffee-breath at bay; the bland, plastic taste of the tip of a pen as I compose yet another grocery list.

I touch: the gummy surface of a countertop left mottled and blemished by dirty cups, bowls, dishes, and wrappers; a slightly damp, highly stinky baseball jersey as I throw it into the dying washer; a wet shower mat with my bare feet, causing me to leap onto cold tiles. (Ick.)

Home.


And there you have it. It's probably not the A+ work my children received on their poems describing places like Disneyworld or the zoo, but it's my poem and I'm sticking to it.

Feel Free To Paint Your Toenails During This Post

I'm back! Not that I was really gone, I've been here. I mean, around. You know, physically. But after the events in Boston and Texas, I just felt like I needed a vacation from media for awhile. Because I'm such a delicate bunny.

It's not like I accomplished much while I wasn't here writing. Although there was this:

She went to prom with her beau. She went with a group of about 10 other couples. And the whole thing made me think some stuff to myself. Stuff like: Self, you cannot possibly have a daughter old enough to attend prom, because you are only a few years past that yourself! And: Self, this is just a preview. Someday you'll be watching her in a white dress. And then: Self, you must knock off that kind of thinking! And finally: Self, you are getting old. That stuff you said about just being past prom yourself? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Also, I may have found a new energy source. I think if you could find a way to harness the light that was coming off these kids, BAM! You could light the world! I mean, they were all just so beautiful and fresh and full of light. And they had absolutely no idea!

Youth is wasted on the young.

Let's see....what else?

Um, there was laundry. And dog walking. And trying to keep the dog from walking off with the laundry. Seriously. This has become a thing now. I walk down the hall past the laundry room and I find a random piece of underwear or dirty sock or damp dishrag laying in the middle of the floor. At first, I was blaming the children, thinking they were knocking stuff off of the ever-present-piles of dirties in their haste to grab a clean garment and get out of the laundry room before I could catch them in there and make them take their WHOLE pile of clean clothes back to their room instead of just retrieving one. piece. at. a. time. But then, it dawned on me that the culprit was more than likely the Dumb Dog, what with her excellent nose and the fabulous smelling capabilities that go with it. Oh yeah, and her propensity to find absolute joy in the grossest smelling stuff. Yep. Would that I could find the same joy! It would make doing laundry and spending any amount of time in either of my sons' rooms so much nicer.

Hmmm....there was also taking my younger son to the dermatologist to have something removed from his back and standing by his head to comfort him whilst the doc cut an inch long, nearly inch deep incision into his back. Guess what we talked about while this little procedure was going on? Pizza. It was highly disturbing. And I'm not usually grossed out by stuff like that. In fact, for the first part of it, I was pretty fascinated. And then the discussion of pizza came up and I had to stop watching for a bit. You're welcome.

Also, my house is the poster child for entropy. I have been trying to systematically go through the house and clean things up and throw things out. My children have been systematically going through the house and messing things up and bringing things in. This has been causing me to systematically eyeball my wine bottles more times a day than I should probably mention.

And now that it's almost May (and thank the heavens above, because April? You have bitten it HARD. It's been wet and cold around here. Hey April! Don't let the door hitcha on your way out!) I am equal parts excitement and dread. Excitement because YAY! Warmer weather (Sweet cracker sandwiches! It BETTER get warmer)! And warmer weather means more time outside playing and watching baseball and grilling and walking the Dumb Dog. And also, May means school is almost out. Dread because school is almost out and that means projects and Special Days which require my time and attention when I am in no mood or shape to give any more time or attention to anything but painting my toenails. Seriously. That's my attention span right there. If it takes longer or requires more effort than painting my toenails, I'm out.

Whew! I feel much better! Thanks for reading. Or alternatively, thanks for pretending to read while you painted your toenails.

Random Thoughts: Spring Break, Gnats, and Dog Walking

Do you hear that? That sweet sound of silence? My children are back in school after Spring Break. Now the fact that I'm enjoying the silence is not to say that I didn't enjoy the little darlings while they were home, because I did. But I didn't particularly enjoy the trail of kid garbage left wherever they went. If my kids were Hansel and Gretel, they wouldn't drop only bread crumbs, they would drop shoes, dirty socks, bath towels, candy wrappers, soda cans, water bottles, juice pouches, dirty dishes, jackets, blankets, and sporting equipment. They would have absolutely NO PROBLEM finding their way home, methinks.

We spent Easter weekend in my hometown with my parents and took a day to visit my beloved's mom and sisters just down the road. It was a strange Easter as my brother (Uncle Grumpy) and his family were in Florida instead of with us (where they should have been). That's the first time we've spent an Easter without their family. It was strange. And my kids were very disappointed as they very much wanted to pal around with their cousins. To assuage this disappointment I planned a different Easter egg hunt this year.

Usually the eggs are hidden by the kids over 13 for the kids under 13. Since the cousins were gone, the only ones under 13 were Sean and Mary. I decided that we'd have an egg scavenger hunt around town instead. It was a hit. Maggie, James and I hid eggs with clues (and candy) around town, then my mom drove Mary and my dad drove Sean to find the eggs. We had a good time going to different places that the kids knew and loved. It would have been even better if I was good at math and didn't have more clues than eggs. Ooops! Things worked out anyway and it ate some of the daylight that the kids normally would've spent moping about their cousins being gone. (Hey Uncle Grumpy's family?! Have I made you feel guilty enough now?)

Then there was the traditional beating of the pinata. As I've said before, nothing says 'He is risen' like taking a whack at a papier mache duck with a long stick. ;)

The day after Easter, we headed about 90 miles south to Saint Louis. (For the purposes of trying to sound like we vacationed somewhere exotic over Spring Break, we have been pronouncing that city's name with a French pronunciation. Think: Sahn Leweee. You are more than welcome to join us in this. I think if enough of us do it, it could be A Thing.) Even though we grew up a short hour and a half away, my beloved and I had never taken our children there. We decided to take a day and rectify that situation. We first headed to the Arch where we waited in line for security while embarrassing ourselves in front of our fellow line-waiters. One son was attempting parcourt on the sloped sides of the entrance, another was desperately trying (and mostly failing) to take panoramic shots of the Arch from underneath it with my phone, one was taking photos on her phone while being accosted by a strange man dressed like a '90s rap artist, and one was doing everything she could to aggravate everyone else by either mocking them or not being satisfied with things. We are delightful to be in line with.

Once we got in and purchased our tickets, we had just enough time to buy some salt water taffy and root beer barrel candy at the mercantile before waiting in another line to board the 5 seat tram/pods to the top. Then we split up (boys/girls) and took the 4 minute ride to the top with strangers (who we discovered, were from nearby places--hello boys from Sacred Heart-Griffin! Hello couple from South Dakota with family in Chatham where we have family!) who were probably quite happy to be shed of us once the trams came to a stop.

When we got to the top, we elbowed our way through the crowds to the windows and took pictures and oohed and ahhed. Except Sean, who is afraid of heights and decided that just making the trip up was enough for one day and who stood in the exact center of the milling crowd so he wouldn't have to see out the windows.

After the Arch, we stopped for some lunch and headed to the zoo. There we saw lots of animals--including Sean's favorite, the Somali wild ass. You know why it was his favorite? Because it gave him a legitimate reason to say the word ass. And like any 11 year old boy, he was very creative in finding ways to work it into conversation throughout the day. We also ran into friends from our neighborhood--causing everyone to muse about what a small world it really is. And then I had that stupid, insipid song in my head all day and willingly shared it with my family by singing it loudly and poorly as often as possible because I love them and I am a giver.

After the zoo, we dropped Patrick at his hotel (he was staying behind on business) and I drove the kids home to my folks' house to spend the night before heading back to Indy. And I only almost wrecked the car once because of a McConnaughay fit, brought on by my eldest son's Cartman voice and the town of Raymond. Now if we want to give something or someone particularly high praise, we call it/them Raymond.

***************

Maggie, James, Mary, and I went to drum circle last week. Sean opted not to go as he didn't "see the point of having some dirty hippie* tell me about hitting a drum" when he could be outside playing with his dudes. We had a great time. It relieved our stress (but did make our hands a little sore) and had us laughing. The folks at the drum place said as the weather warmed, they'd move the circle outside. We have all agreed we are going back. Maggie even said she's going to go with a group of friends. It was an hour well spent.

*The instructors might lean toward hippie just a skosh, but were not in the least bit dirty.

***************

I have been trying to teach the Dumb Dog manners. And part of this requires me taking her for leashed walks and teaching her how to be sociable without appearing ridiculous. This means that when people approach, I shorten that leash to nothing and often make her sit until the people have walked by. This is so hard for her, since what she really wants to do is bound up to them and wag them into submission, that while she's sitting her hindquarters quiver. Then when I give her the command to continue walking she does a full body shake. If you happen by when we are walking, you'll be able to easily identify us: I'll be the weary human with several loaded poop bags walking the yellow hound that looks as if she's suffering from fits.

****************

I have floaters in my eyes. Nothing to be alarmed about, just the occasional black spots floating by. However, sometimes I think the floaters are gnats out in front of me and I wildly wave my arms about my face trying to clear the air. Then I realize what I'm seeing are floaters, NOT gnats, and I look around to see if anyone saw me.

This morning while walking the dog, I was walking and noticed the floaters again. Rather than embarrass myself in front of the neighborhood by flinging my arms about at nothing, I took a deep breath and kept walking, thinking that the floaters would settle in a minute. This would have been a great plan, if the floaters were really floaters. Instead they really were gnats and as I took a deep breath, one flew up my nose. So instead of waving my arms about my face, I stood there hacking and honking and snorting and doing a little dance because I was totally squicked out about inhaling a gnat.

That was so completely NOT RAYMOND!

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Last Week: Or Seven Days Of Excuses About Why I Couldn't Blog

I know it seems like I've been completely lame about posting and I'd like to say that my last post sucked all of my creativity and you know, making with the words out of me, but really it's just that my life has been extraordinarily ordinary lately. My life has been like watching paint dry. Except that watching paint dry is much more exciting and interesting than my life. Also, the last week has been fraught with roadblocks to blogging. To wit:

Sunday: I spent 7 hours in various waiting and exam rooms in doctors' offices and hospitals with my eldest. She has a pain in her ribs. She had x-rays and blood work (because of which my poor sweetums became white as a sheet, nearly keeled over, and immediately barfed up the juice the nurses gave her. Girl doesn't do blood work.) and probably a total of 40 minutes with various medical personnel. We spent the rest of the time either waiting in rooms or lobbies, moving from one building to another, or moving from one room to another, or doing paperwork. The results? Um, inconclusive. They know what it isn't, but can't tell us what is causing her the pain. The moral of this medical adventure? The weekend urgent care clinic is probably not the best place to seek out care for this type of problem. We should have waited a little and gone to her regular doc. I'm guessing we could've skipped a few steps. Oh well, at least I wasn't stuck in the laundry room for 7 hours.

Monday: Because of the activities of the weekend--namely Maggie's Medical Adventure in Hospital Land-- I spent 7 hours in the laundry room. But at least we were all in relative good health.

Tuesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Worst Cold Ever. Seriously. It was the worst. I'm sure it was worse than any cold suffered by any human in the history of the world. Do you know why? Because it was happening to me. Duh! Anyway. It was nasty. And gross. And horrible. But at least it wasn't a migraine.

Wednesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Migraine From Hell. This sucker came roaring in about the time I took Mary to the bus stop. She looked at me and said, "I can tell you don't feel good. Does your head hurt?" When I barely nodded my aching noggin, she said, "Oh I'm sorry! But at least you didn't throw up!" So naturally when I got back to the house, the vomiting started. Migraines are horrible. Vomiting is bad. But combining the two is a rather specific sort of hell. You can't keep your migraine meds down because you're vomiting. And because of this the pain continues, which leads to more nausea and vomiting. It's delightful. And by delightful I mean I spent a very long time wishing that God would just kill me already before my eyeballs exploded from the pressure leaving a nasty mess for someone--probably my mother, because goodness knows the people I live with wouldn't know what cleaning up was like--to clean up. I was finally able to time the medication just right with the waves of nausea and passed out in my bed with the heating pad covering my head. I couldn't think straight, but at least I had the power of speech.

Thursday: I woke up Thursday morning after 36 hours of fighting The Migraine From Hell and felt much better. But I sounded like Barry White. After he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years. Except for when I had no voice at all. It was extremely sexy. I alternated between a squeaky whisper and a very bass rasp. It's no wonder that my husband, upon returning from a business trip gave me an air kiss in the area of my forehead. While holding his breath. Lucky guy. I had been stuck in the house all week, but at least I'd be getting out tomorrow for lunch with a group of friends.

Friday: Lunch with friends was lovely. Unfortunately it was a very small group, as a couple of the girls discovered at the last minute that they couldn't come. Still, lunch with friends is always a good thing. And this lunch was great after the week I'd had. I was out of bed, I was out of the house, my head felt normal, I could breathe, (well, sort of. Every breath made my sinus cavities feel like they do after you snort water.) and I had my voice back.

Saturday: Who blogs on Saturday?

Sunday: I finally found my kitchen island! It only took two hours of picking up, wiping down, disinfecting, vacuuming, and mopping, but there it was! Smack in the middle of my kitchen, right where I'd left it. Then there was shopping for shoes for prom with my daughter. And then shopping for a cape for my eldest son. Yes, a cape. I'm not sure why exactly, his explanation had something to do with his English class,  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, and Batman. I'm shaking my head even as I type that. Then it was time for dinner, followed by the daily round of a little game I like to call "Who Has Homework?" wherein the various contestants tell me if they have homework, why it sucks, and why they shouldn't have to do it. This is followed by several rounds of a game I call "Do It Now Or I'll Continue To Make Threats I Won't Follow Through On." Then the movie "The Breakfast Club" was on and I had to stop and watch it, because, hey, it's "The Breakfast Club." Then, after editing my daughter's paper that she had to write for Geometry (yes, they make them write papers in math class. Ah, for the days when math class was spent doing, um, math!) I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Today: I get to do laundry and you get this mess of a post. We're ALL winners!!

The Post Where I Start Out Talking About One Thing And End Up Talking About Donuts (Mmmm...Donuts...)

I am a hot mess. I have been face-first in closets and cabinets for the last week, cleaning out, purging, organizing, and de-crapifying STUFF. Y'all. We have some STUFF around here. Too much STUFF. Like, I can't believe how much STUFF. Some of it is useful, some of it is pretty, some of it is memories. But much of it is crap. And I am not done. Not by a long shot. But other things have come into the picture that are causing me to have to pull my nose out of cabinets and closets and pantries.

I am leaving in six days for warmer climes. My beloved has a sales meeting in a warm place and the spouses have been invited to tag along. This has caused me jubilation because WARM! SUN! BEACH! But also panic, because ACK! Leaving for several days and relatives are coming in to care for my offspring and my house is sort of, well, a hot mess. Much like the housekeeper.

My parents are off enjoying their annual February in Florida trip, so we weren't able to bribe ask them to come watch the kids. This time, the punishment duties fall to my fabulous sister-in-law and her husband, Aunt Heather and Uncle Steve, whom we shall henceforth refer to as Aunt Hes and Uncle Buck. (Not the unemployed, betting on rigged horses part. And not because of a physical similarity to John Candy. But some of the other stuff? Um...maybe. The whole hatchet thing? Could totally see it happening.) The kids are very excited to have their aunt and uncle coming to stay for a few days. Aunt Hes has already promised a dance off. (Sort of wish I was going to be around for that...) And I'm terribly grateful for their willingness to come over and care for my kids. But you know, it means that I have to lay out routines and phone numbers and appointments and emergency stuff in pretty good detail. And also I need to cook a few meals ahead of time so that Aunt Hes won't have to cook. And I need to get the laundry as caught up as possible. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Shut up.) And I need to get the house cleaned so that they won't see how we really live.

Things are also tough because I have a severe case of PWS. This is not to be confused with PMS (which, at times, I may or may not have but you probably shouldn't go down that road because it can only lead to bad things...). I'm talking about a full-blown, Midwestern wintertime induced case of PWS-Pasty White Skin syndrome. If you know someone who lives in the Midwest, then you know what I'm talking about. The sun is pretty fickle 'round these parts during the winter months. Sometimes it doesn't come out for days. And when it does, it's as weak as Chuck Hagel during confirmation hearings. No? As weak as the NRA's reasoning behind their defense of assault weapons. No? As weak as my similes?  Bingo! Anyway, my point is: the sunshine, it is not so great in the winter. And the skin? Well it is covered virtually 24/7 with clothing. Because winter around here? Brrrr. And what does the combination of weak sunshine and virtual burqa-wear equal? Pasty White Skin. Hence my need to lurk around the tanning salon.

Yep. I'm outing myself. I have, for the first time in my 40-something years, been to a tanning salon. Now, I'm not talking about the spray tan that my daughter talked me into a few years ago that caused me to have carrot fingers. I'm talking about the lay-yourself-down-on-the-bed-with-the-cancer-causing-lights-that-your-mother-doctor-and-every-health-class-warned-you-about-tanning-bed. I know better. Really, I do. I am an SPF 50 kinda gal. True story. But vanity has overridden all of my common sense. And so I have found myself pulling up to the tanning salon, furtively glancing around before I get out of my car, and pulling my collar up around my face in hopes that I won't see someone I know. And it's not just because I'm not wearing makeup and I look, as my daughter would say, ratchet. (This definition is much easier to swallow than the one on urban dictionary.) I am afraid of running into someone and then having to justify myself for going to a tanning salon. The fact that the tanning salon sits right next to the doughnut shop is not a bonus. When you park in the lot, you are only going to one of two places, and neither of them look good. Hmmm....tanning or doughnuts? This is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't quandary. I mean, it's not as bad a quandary as say, Heroin Den/Brothel, but still. Tanning salon? Skin cancer! Doughnuts? Stuck in bathing suit yet again! It's a suburban mommy quandary.

So far, the tanning salon is winning. But if I start looking carroty, I'm thinking that a Bavarian may be the cure.

**I'll be busy tanning cleaning this hot-mess-house this week and then gone to warmer climes for most of next. But look for pictures to come the week after. And also, there could possibly be a wisdom tooth story as well. My daughter is having her wisdom teeth extracted immediately upon our return. Sad panda! However, this might produce significant blog fodder. Happy kitty! (Or something...)

Looking For An Eight-Legged Lifesaver: Why I'm Ready To Become An Arachnomaniac

I'm thinking of buying a tarantula. It's not so much that I'm a fan of arachnids, I just think that having one could help me out right now. My 8 year old has slept on my bedroom floor for the last month. This isn't a non-sequiturial paragraph. Those two ideas really are related.

My 8 year old daughter has, one way or another, found her way into my bedroom and onto my floor for at least the last month. There were a few nights in there that she wasn't on my floor. Twice, she slept in her big sister's room (that would be December 23rd and Christmas Eve) and once she had taken a dose of Benadryl (for itching--a whole 'nother post) and passed out in an antihistamine-induced haze. And once in there we were at my folks' house, so she was camped out in a room with her siblings.

Her explanations about why she winds up in my room are varied. She told me she was 'uncomfortable' in her room. She told me her room didn't have enough room in it. She told me she walked through the kitchen when her older brother was watching "The Walking Dead" and caught a glimpse of something that 'freaked her out'. She told me she was afraid of ghosts. She told me her stomach hurt. She was itchy. She was just scared. She didn't know why, she just was.

At first I was understanding. We've always had a policy that if you have a bad dream and "flipping your pillow over to the good dream side" doesn't work (something that worked for all of her siblings when they were her age), you are welcome to quietly come into our room and sleeping bag it on the floor. So when she first showed up at my bedside waking me up telling me that she was scared, I whispered for her to get her things and find a place on the floor. When she showed up again in the wee hours, I explained that she need not wake me (mama likes needs her sleep) but she could just get her things and quietly come in if it happened again.

It happened again. A lot. I would wake in the night to go to the bathroom and find Mary curled up in her blankets next to the Dumb Dog. Some nights I would wake to the glare of the bathroom light and as I walked by her, a little voice would startle me by saying "I turned the light in your bathroom on because your room in the dark freaks me out." In my head, I said, "then why don't you go sleep in your room where the lights are ALWAYS ON," but at 2:47 in the morning, I lack the verbal capability and fine motor coordination to string together a sentence, so what usually comes out is "bleerrrggh".

The last few nights, I've reached my limit. Girl child has kept herself awake (not a hard task, she has always been my worst sleeper) until I come to bed and then just as I'm ready to go to sleep, she has come in and asked to sleep in my room. I've said no. She has wheedled. I've said no. She has whined. I've said no. She has cried. I've said no. She has blustered. I've said no. She has refused to sleep. I've said no. She has stood in the hallway just outside my door silently staring at me. (I admit to freaking out a little at this. She totally looks like one of those "bad seed" children from a horror movie, plotting the grisly ways she will torture me and make me die.) I've ignored her. And you know what happened? She waited until she heard me sleeping (I'm NOT admitting that I snore. I am a delicate flower, you know.) and then she has come into my room with her many blankets and pillows and camped out next to the dog. I find her sleeping there in the morning.

And then, after all of these late night shenanigans, guess who's a bit of a grouch pouch in the morning? (Well of course I am, you big silly, I already explained that mama needs her sleep. But guess who ELSE.) If you guessed Princess Mary, then you guessed correctly. In the mornings I am met with a whole litany of reasons why she can't get up. And my response is always the same: If you would go to sleep at your bedtime and stay in your room all night, you would be well rested in the morning and ready to face the day, much like your bright and happy morning person mother. Well, yeah, I say that but leave out the whole part about me.

I am at the end of my rope, thus embracing arachnids. You see, my sweet 8 year old is a dyed-in-the-wool arachnophobe. Not kidding. If there's a spider anywhere near, she will holler and give that area wide berth for days, even after um, "removal", of the offending spider. I'm thinking that if I get a couple of tarantulas and keep them in my room, the problem of a certain 8 year old crashing on my floor like a party girl after a frat bash will resolve itself.

Anyone have a spider they are looking to get rid of?

A Short List Of Things That Induce Humbuggery And Their Antidotes

It's officially the Christmas season? Did you notice? Way back in October? It feels more and more like the Christmas season is a marathon rather than a sprint. I try really hard to enjoy the season and not to give in to negative feelings about worldliness and commercialism, but sometimes, even with my Pollyanna alter-ego screaming "HAPPY THOUGHTS!" in my head, I still fall into a Scrooge-like frame of mind that makes me want to say 'Bah! Humbug!'.

In no particular order, a short list of things that make me humbuggy:

Hearing Christmas carols before Thanksgiving. I like my holidays like I like my boobs. Firmly separated--the uniboob isn't a good look for anybody.  And running holidays together is like having a uniboob on the calendar. Or something like that. Whatever. You know what I mean. One holiday at a time, please! Humbug!

And while I'm speaking of Christmas carols, once we are past Thanksgiving and the stamp of approval has been given for the aural free-for-all of carols heard everywhere around the clock, nothing will cause me an irrational flash of holiday rage like hearing my least favorite carol in the history of ever: The Little Drummer Boy. There's so much about this "carol" that I dislike that I can't even list everything. Humbug!

Something else that makes me want to crawl in a hole and wait for January: The Elf on a Shelf. Now, I understand how this little guy makes some people happy. In fact, when we first received him, I thought "how fun!" But that was before I was subjected to my subconscious awakening me in the middle of the night with a mental forehead slap because I forgot to move that damn elf. Then I would have to drag my bleary-eyed self downstairs before the younger children to make sure that the elf had "traveled" during the night. This was bad enough. But through the magic of the interwebs, I caught wind of some overachieving parents whose elves allegedly cause mischief in the night. I was seeing elves making "snow angels" in flour on the countertops, elves using a hanger as a zipline from the Christmas tree, an elf and a Barbie sipping syrup straight out of the bottle through straws like they were on some demented date, elves replacing the stockings hung by the chimney with care with dirty socks or underwear. Folks, I'm pretty sure that I have enough messes on my countertops because I am apparently the only one who knows how to wipe them down. So I'm supposed to fling four on my counter so that the elf can roll around in it? Nope. Nope. Nope-itty-nope-nope. And I've mentioned here before my childrens' fondness for taking their dirty socks off and leaving them where they fall. Who needs an elf for that?! I can't be certain, but I think the Elf on the Shelf makes the Baby Jesus cry. Humbug!

And finally, on this very ranty list: I hate having to do the majority of holiday preparation by myself. I do most of the shopping, all of the wrapping, organize the putting up and taking down of holiday decorations, and I bake and cook enough food to feed several families. Granted, my beloved works hard and travels a lot, making it hard for him to pitch in. Also, he wraps gifts like a drunken three-fingered gnome, (and that's being generous to him and disparaging to drunken three-fingered gnomes.) so other than whatever he buys for me, he is granted dispensation from wrapping duties. Okay, maybe "hate" is too strong a word, but it's only December 3rd and I'm already dreaming of drinking adult beverages all by myself on a tropical island somewhere.

I promise I'm more fun to be around than I just made myself sound. Mostly. And part of the reason is because whenever I start to get humbuggy, I have a short list of antidotes to Humbuggery that works wonders . Humbugginess? Humbugishness? Whatever. Here you go:

* I turn up some of my favorite music and dance. And I don't mean that I shuffle my feet anemically and snap my fingers. I dance. Now, understand that I'm no great dancer. I'm more Elaine Benes than Martha Graham, but what I lack in style and form, I make up for in enthusiasm. Let's just say that if the neighbors are watching, I'm confirming everything they ever thought about me. But it doesn't matter. When I'm dancing, there is no room for the humbug. Jitterbugging? Yes. Humbugging? Absolutely not.

* I turn up some of my favorite music and sing. I've been told that I have a nice singing voice. I used to sing solos in church. I'm not talking about that kind of singing. I'm talking about window-rattling. I sing loud enough to make dogs howl. And I sing badly. On purpose. For some reason, it releases something in me that makes me feel better. I'm pretty sure that if scientists somewhere studied it, they would say that all the feel good juices in your body pour into your brain and marinate it causing feel goodyness all over your body. Why no, I never taught science. Why do you ask? Anyway. Loud, bad singing. I highly recommend it.

* I head over to the Little Drummer Boy Challenge and read about others who hate the song as much as I do. I read the hilarious stories of how they were knocked out of the game and I feel a connection. I read about the avoidance tactics people employ to avoid hearing the song to stay in longer and I root for them. Even though I was knocked out of the game early on (like last week) from the unholy pairing of Little Drummer Boy and Bob Seger, (certain proof of Satan's existence) I pop over now and then to visit the Wall of the Fallen and see how people were slain by the boy with the drum. Misery loves company. Especially if it's hilarious company.

* Sometimes, I find a quiet spot where I can't be bothered--yes, I hide--and I close my eyes and just breathe in and out for five minutes. You wouldn't believe how often this occurs in the van in the garage. For some reason, no one thinks to look there for me. (Please don't tell. I'm begging you. They've hunted me down everywhere else.) But just five minutes of quiet, focused breathing sets me to rights again.

* And finally, every time I kvetch and complain about the many holiday tasks ahead of me, I stop and mentally shake myself. And then I make myself list three ways in which I am blessed. Believe me, it's hard to maintain any sense of humbugishness when you are listing blessings.

So now y'all, it's your turn. What makes you say "Bah Humbug!" and what do you do to keep yourself from becoming your family's version of Scrooge? Do share. We can help each other out. After all, it is the season of giving.

Also, I need you all sane and healthy so you'll keep coming back here. Apparently it's also the season for self-absorbed bloggers to pander for comments. Ahem.

Denial: It Works For Me!

Some things may or may not have happened Chez Ganey lately. And I shall follow the CIA policy of complete denial.

I did not eat a meal of popcorn one night last week, leaving the children to fend for themselves because I was so tired from running said children to activities EVERY DAY last week--including the weekend--to fix a meal.

I did not hide the Dumb Dog's squeaky ball when she brought it to me for the eleventy-billionth time while I was trying to watch t.v. This did not make her look like she has Early Onset Doggy Dementia when she came back into the room and was all damn! I was just in here! I know I came in here for something? Now what was I looking for?

I did not laugh at the Dumb Dog for looking like she has Doggy Dementia.

I did not glare at my camera for sitting on my counter and mocking me for my inability to feel the least bit creative lately.

I did not shove it deeply into my camera bag while muttering things about f-stops and white balance and inanimate objects somehow inducing guilt.

I did not close the door on my kids' bathroom so I didn't have to look at it instead of clean it.

I did not forget that the assessor was coming today to look at the house for our refinancing.

I did not go into panic mode when he mentioned that he would spend about 15 minutes outside taking pictures before he came INSIDE TO TAKE PICTURES!

I did not glare at my husband and accuse him of purposely forgetting to tell me about the picture part.

I did not sprint up the stairs the second the door closed behind the assessor to clean the kids' bathroom.

I did not run through bedrooms with a garbage bag shoving things inside it to make the rooms look cleaner.

I was not sweating when the assessor came inside.

I did not make the excuse to the assessor that my children were supposed to clean their rooms this weekend but with the cold weather, everyone has realized that all of their pants have suddenly been shortened by two or three inches and instead of cleaning, we went on an emergency shopping trip for pants.

I did not tell my children that they would have to choose between growing and going to college.

I did not take 6 garbage bags full of outgrown/no longer worn clothing from every one's closet--including that of mine and my beloved--to Goodwill.

I did not take 6 garbage bags containing throw pillows to Goodwill.

I do not have issues with throw pillows. I do not need an intervention. I can quit any time I want to.

I did not walk by the mountains of clothing in the laundry room this weekend and say "I'll do that later."

I did not go into the laundry room this morning and immediately start saying bad words to myself about myself.

I did not hide the squeaker from the Dumb Dog's desqueaked fluffy hedgehog in my pocket and randomly squeak it just to make her crazy.

I did not hide chocolate.

I did not dance in the kitchen to a new favorite song when I was all alone.

I did not dance in the kitchen to another new favorite song with my 13 year old son and proceed to tell him that I really know how to get down with my bad self.

He did not laugh at me.

I did not stick my tongue out at my computer when looking at the home decor category on Pinterest.

I did not forget to take in a thing that's needed to be returned to Lowe's that was sitting right next to my purse on my car seat when I went in there earlier in the week.

I did not realize it when I drove away and I was not too lazy to turn around and go back and return it.

I did not look at myself in the mirror and say bad things about myself and my appearance.

I did not "forget" to vacuum because I was reading.

I did not make faces behind my beloved's back when he was kindly and gently reminding me about something with the checkbook.

I did not forget to enter something into the checkbook.

I did not wave in a friendly manner to a neighbor and then roll my eyes when the neighbor couldn't see me.

I did not forget my list when I went to the grocery store.

I did not put on my ipod while I was fixing dinner so that I wouldn't have to interact with anyone.

Nobody interrupted me while I was fixing dinner.

I did not drink a glass of wine and then wish for several more glasses.

Okay. So there you go. All sorts of things that apparently didn't happen. What about you? What didn't you do?

Priorities

I have a lot to do. School started today and my house looks like a group of drunk frat boys decorated. I just didn't see the point in the last week in trying to keep the house picked up after my children. Despite my constant haranguing, they did as they are wont and left their stuff all over the house, preferring television, swimming, playing with friends, and playing video and computer games to cleaning up after themselves. I, who was busy shuttling people to various big box stores to spend my retirement savings on school supplies, had neither the time nor the energy to fight entropy.

And so, I am now living in our neighborhood's version of Delta Tau Chi. Well, if dirty socks, dog hair, and video game controllers were beer cans, kegs, and dirty underwear, anyway. It's a smidge unkempt around here is my point.

I have about 4 loads of laundry to fold. (I'm not sure what constitutes a load at your house, but at our house, a load=filling the washer to capacity and then stuffing in about 6 more items and asking your 13 year old to help you close the washer door. My appliances hate me.) Every flat surface in my kitchen is covered and needs to be decluttered. And the dirty socks and shoes in the family room? The dirty sock/shoe to person ratio is about 4 to 1. The dog hair bunnies have dust bunnies. The globs of toothpaste in the kids bathroom sinks have grown, if not to toothpaste mountains, then at least toothpaste foothills. There are 11 post it notes on the cabinets above the desk where I am writing this. They all contain urgent messages/reminders of things that I need to get done. They have been up there for three weeks. I like to think of them as my own Mondrian-type art. It makes me feels sophisticated. In a hillbilly sort of way. My vacuum cleaner has been sitting in a corner mocking me since last weekend when my beloved installed some new appliances in the kitchen and I had 3 minutes to string together to vacuum up styrofoam from the packaging.

I hear that swine flu is making the rounds at the State Fair. I am afraid that the health department will be ringing my doorbell any day now, quarantining us as Ground Zero for swine flu virus development, such is the state of our piggishness around here.

And yet, in spite of all that, here I am sitting at my computer all lackadaisical-like, typing my little heart out because I feel as if I have been maintaining radio silence for the better part of 3 months, only emerging from the underground to publish birthday posts, and dagnabbit! I am ready to write a little more. Priorities, people. I has 'em! I can totally ignore all the dust bunnies, dirty socks, and the lady from the health department on my doorstep while I am sitting here writing. You know where I learned all my mad prioritizing skillz?

From my children.

Truth Is...

The truth is, I am not feeling very inspired to do much lately. Even writing here is hard because I just feel as if I have nothing to say and why should I inflict myself upon people by writing something that isn't worth reading?

The truth is, I have been feeling so uncreative lately that just walking through a craft store yesterday made me angry because I looked at all the stuff and thought, "Ugh!"

The truth is, I love working out. AFTER I have worked out. Because the truth is, I don't like it at all beforehand.

The truth is, I've been working out for almost a month now and I'm not seeing much of a difference. Oh, a pound here or there and a few inches, but the truth is, as hard as I've been working, I feel like I should see a bigger difference than I am.

The truth is, I'm tracking every damn calorie that goes in my mouth.

The truth is, I really like the website that I'm using to do it. (www.myfitnesspal.com)

The truth is, it's a lot harder to eat back all my exercise calories in a healthy way.

The truth is, what I really want to do, is cram about 8 Oreos in my mouth and be done with it.

The truth is, I feel like all I do these days is work out, do laundry, and clean up after slovenly children.

The truth is, I haven't cleaned out my garden yet and I'm going to need to do it soon.

The truth is, Little League has started and while I enjoy watching the games, I don't enjoy watching practice.

The truth is, that when my beloved is out of town and can't take Sean to practice, I have to. And the truth is, I sit in the van, all anti-social like, and read while practice is going on.

The truth is, I love it.

The truth is, I still help Mary get dressed in the mornings. She's seven and has been quite capable of dressing herself for years.

The truth is, she's a little lazy about waking on time and I'm a bit of a control freak and don't trust her fashion choices. Although considering most of her wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, I'm not really sure how she can mess things up.

The truth is, I foresee my helping her dress herself until she's 40. And then she'll have to help me.

The truth is, the passenger side van door has been non-functioning for over a year.

The truth is, if my beloved had to drive the van everyday it would already be fixed.

The truth is, I am TIRED of asking my beloved to have it fixed and so I suffer along in martyred silence.

Okay, the truth is, I suffer along in martyred muttering under my breath.

The truth is, I need to paint the living room, but I'm so worn out after working out most days, that the idea of painting the living room makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and hum soothing songs to myself.

The truth is, I love watching Tilly stretch out in a sun patch and listening to her snore.

The truth is, I could really go for some of my mom's potato salad today. And trust me, I have enough calories left today that I could have plenty.

The truth is, I watched "War Horse" over the weekend with my beloved and James and had a big ol' ugly cry during a very climactic scene. Seriously. Bad. I just don't do that in movies. Patrick gave me a quizzical look and asked if I was going to be all right. I had to pull myself together before having a full blown McConnaughay fit.

The truth is, I love eating salads, I just don't enjoy making them.

The truth is, I don't drink Diet Coke anymore. (I know, right?!?!) I now drink so much water that I have to pee all the time. (You're welcome.)

The truth is, I'm sure that this is better for me, but sometimes I miss the ritual of my morning Diet Coke, even though I don't even crave them anymore.

The truth is, I have now started talking about bathroom habits, and that is just wrong on so many levels. So the truth is, I'm going to stop now and go cook some turkey bacon.

And the truth is, I'll want to eat seven slices, but after killing myself this morning at the Y, the truth is, I'll only eat one.

What are some of your truths? Feel free to share!

It Has Begun

I know I said I was done showing you glittery things. I lied. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Electric Bethlehem!!!

Friends, that isn't even the half of it because I am standing in my cul-de-sac taking the picture so you are missing the five houses there. My house with its candle lights in the windows and the two bushes by the front door with white lights looks like a showgirl from Peoria. You get the analogy, right? Peoria doesn't have showgirls. I had to explain this to my children. I don't know. Maybe it's not such a great example. Whatever. You get the idea. When you drive through our cul-de-sac--which by the way is the only one in our neighborhood that looks like this--we look like non-participants by comparison.

Anyway. If you want to stop by and visit, you'll recognize my house right away. Just put on your sunglasses before you turn into the neighborhood.

Because Apparently 5 Straight Days Of Posting Has Rendered Me Boring And Stupid

I remember way back when when I first started blogging and I wrote every day--and sometimes even on the weekend. That hasn't happened for a very long time. Mostly because I don't have all kinds of stories to tell. Mainly because the dumb dog has seemed to find her equilibrium and doesn't leave me with a whole lot of blog fodder. And even though some of you have been kind enough to say that you would read my grocery list, I'm not brave enough to actually find out if that is true. Trust me, I'm not nearly as entertaining on my grocery list. Mostly because grocery shopping makes me want to punch someone in the throat.

I have some more Christmas related things to show you, but because November is trying to slowly kill me with its gray days, I haven't shown you. And not just because the lack of sunlight makes me want to crawl in a hole, curl up in a fetal position, and hum myself to sleep like some inmate in The Snake Pit. Mostly it's because the lack of sunlight makes taking good pictures really hard. I mean, I suppose I could take some inside, but that would mean an excruciating photo session, because have I mentioned that the previous owners of this house had four fluorescent light boxes installed for the kitchen lighting? No? Well, they did. Instead of opting for can lights or pendants or even some butt-ugly chandelier like they installed in the dining room, they had the genius idea of putting fluorescent boxes all framed out with crown moulding. The are the nicest framed fluorescent lights you ever did see. Too bad they suck. Especially when you are trying to take decent pictures. Oh, and just so you can see the special brand of crazy that happened when they built this house, there are two can lights over the planning desk where I am typing this. What the....? I just don't get it. Don't even get me started on the Circus Tent bathroom.

Ahem. Sorry. Tangent and rant over. Somehow I started writing about Christmas projects and my lack of blog fodder and wound up telling you the tale of our kitchen lighting. Scintillating!

I guess I would have been better off making the post that pops up here the one with the cute but dumb dog. Anyway. Barring more clouds (Please, Lord, part them like the Red Sea! This girl needs some sunlight!) and children coming down with strep (Please, Lord, may that particular scourge pass over us this home!) I should be back tomorrow with a variation on the glitter birds that I posted last week. And maybe some other stuff. Rest assured I will not give you a detailed description of the lighting plan in the rest of the house.

Unless I really can't think of something to write about.

Oh. My. Bob!*

Boy am I ever glad it's a new week! Last week was one of the longest weeks ever in the history of like, ever.

Something has been going around Mary's classroom and we discovered on Halloween night after all the candy was sorted, much to our horror and chagrin, that Mary caught it.

What was it? It was--*shudder*--lice

Sorry if you were eating breakfast. I know how squicked out you may be. Trust me. I reached a level of squickitude that I didn't know was possible. This is a problem our family has never had to deal with, but one, which after to speaking to people and doing some research, I've discovered is unbelievably common. Still, there is a stigma and a stereotype associated with lice that makes people (me too!) uncomfortable. But let me assure you, as much as I talk about our house being demolition worthy and dirty and as much as I lament doing laundry, we are not living in squalor or hoarding conditions. The health department would not have issues with the cleanliness here. My children shower daily (or very near--those with dry skin in the winter go every other day--just in case you were madly interested in our personal hygiene) and despite their issues with locating the laundry basket, they wear clean clothes. What I'm saying is, we ain't dirty, folks.

Lice happens. And this time it happened to us.

So I spent Halloween night administering Lice MD to Mary's hair and going over it with a nit comb. Then, I stripped her bedding and washed everything in hot and dried it on the highest heat setting. Then I bagged up her stuffed animals and any pillows that couldn't be laundered. And because she had "slept over" in Sean's room over fall break, I did the same to his room.

The next day, much to Sean's amusement and Mary's chagrin, I slathered their heads with mayonnaise and covered their heads with shower caps. And, because I am often in head-to-head contact through snuggles and such with Mary, I did it to myself too, just in case. Again, me so sexy! We left that mess on all day.

Then I washed more bedding, vacuumed floors and mattresses, and basically tried to wear out my washer and dryer.

After a day of having a head that smelled like turkey sandwich gone rogue, it was off to the tub to wash the mayo out of the kids' hair and give a rinse with vinegar. Mmm! Smells like pickles! With the added benefit of being sting-y! Delightful! (Particularly fun with my youngest, who is more sensitive in the sensory areas than the rest of us.) And then I got to go through every one's hair again. Good times.

Lather, rinse, repeat the nit-picking for the rest of the week. Hence, the rather busy life with no time for blogging.

So far, (and believe me, I am knocking on every piece of wood in range, throwing salt over my shoulder, crossing my fingers, and anything else that may spare us a repeat performance) Mary's head has been clear and the rest of us have remained louse-free. (Oh my Bob, I never thought I'd be saying those words!) It was a lot of work and I don't feel free and clear just yet. We are going to do one last treatment tonight or tomorrow just in case I missed anything. Good times.

I guess my point in this post is two-fold: 1. I wanted to share our story so that in some small way, on some little corner of the innerwebs, someone else who has a child with an itchy head might find this post and he or she won't feel like the world's worst parent. And 2: This should explain my absence to anybody that was keeping track. (What am I? In junior high? Do I have to explain my absences? I am a huge dork!)

So there you go.

Stay tuned because later this week I will have some lice-free posts. God willing and the creek don't rise, every post for the rest of my life will be lice-free!! In fact, those posts may or may not have something to do with a holiday that is less than 2 months away.

Okay. They totally have something to do with that holiday. Believe me, I won't be rushing through Thanksgiving, as it's one of my very favorite holidays, but I'm sharing, in case you, like me like to steal copy ideas (while of course giving credit to the originator) and have plenty of time to implement them before the crush of December busyness is upon us.

Here's to the rest of the week! (Oh please, Lord, may it be lice free!)

* That's the phrase we've adopted around here so that we don't use God's name offhandedly.

It's Monday And...

It's Monday, and I woke up earlier than usual so that I could help James get ready for Dictionary Day at school. He was dressing as "cantankerous" and he needed help putting corn starch in his hair so that it would be gray to aid in his grumpy old man costume. What happened though, was that the corn starch looked less like gray than a severe case of dandruff and it went everywhere, so I spent the next ten minutes trying to get it out of his hair and out of the grooves in our hardwood floors.

You young whippersnappers don't know anything! Why in my day, we walked 5 miles to school. Uphill both ways! Barefoot! In blizzards! And we wore wool underwear!

You kids get off my lawn!

It's Monday, so naturally Mary didn't feel good. Jeezo-beezo, if I had a nickel for every time that girl told me she doesn't feel well or something hurts I could hire a nanny to watch over my children and I could sit on my ever-expanding backside and read trash magazines and drink wine and talk with the other mums about how my nanny was doing a crap job raising my children. Instead, I just get to look over whatever complaint or ailment it is this time, reassure her that she's going to make it to her 8th birthday (maybe. grrr.) and send a prayer up thanking God for my mother, who I am certain, fielded the exact same complaints from me when I was young, as I'm told I was a wee bit of a hypochondriac.

It's Monday, and because Mary refused to get out of bed, I went on an hysterical tirade, ranting and raving about how she is going to bed early tonight come hell or high water. I stormed and muttered and vented and whined. I made sure she knew just how inconvenienced we all were because of her refusal to get up on time.

It's Monday, and it's also Halloween, so of course the threat about the early bedtime will be suspended. Because I am a sucker.

It's Monday, so along with my morning raving came a heaping dose of mother-guilt about what such raving will do to Mary's tender heart.

It's Monday, and my eldest did her own laundry last night so that she might have something to wear this morning. And by "did her own laundry" I mean that she washed her clothes, threw them in the dryer and pawed through the dried clothes this morning to get at what she wanted to wear and left the rest of the clothes hanging out of the dryer and onto the floor. It looks like my dryer barfed.

It's Monday, and I want a Diet Coke but I'm not drinking them, so I'll just drink water. And resent it with every gulp.

It's Monday, and it's Halloween. I hate Halloween. When did it become such a huge holiday? When did my neighbors start decorating for it like they do for Christmas? Wait. Just kidding. I live in a crazy cul-de-sac. They've done it since we moved in--probably before we moved in, I guess. It's like the Halloween aisle at several superstores exploded up in this 'hood. Except for our house. I have mums. I have two pumpkins (which, if I play my cards right, my kids will forget about wanting to carve in their eagerness to begin trick-or-treating). I have a fall wreath on the door. That's it. I'm done, dammit. But I do pass out good candy and I'm generous with it, so I guess the true spirit of the Great Pumpkin abides within me.

It's Monday, and you would never know that I had the downstairs clean on Thursday. Stupid dog. Messy children.

It's Monday, and if I were participating in Dictionary Day, I'm fairly certain my word would be "irascible." Hmph.

If you had to choose a word for yourself today, what would it be?

What Should Have Happened/What Really Happened

What Should Have Happened: I should have had an idea for a Friday blog post, or at the very least a photo that could go up to replace the picture of my very gross, disfigured fingers so that you wouldn't have had to see it every time you stopped by over the weekend. (HAHAHAHA!! I say that like I have actual people who check back on my blog just to see if I've written something yet. Geez, I crack myself up!)

What Really Happened: Um....I had no ideas. So you got to see my very gross, disfigured fingers all weekend.

What Should Have Happened: The Sugarland concert should have gone on uninterupted with beautiful summer skies as a background.

What Really Happened: There was a terrible accident and now families and friends are suffering the loss of dear ones and others are recovering from injuries.

What Should Have Happened: We should have gone to the State Fair as a family on Sunday. My youngest two--one of whom has never been to the fair--should have been delighted by rides, grossed out by the giant swine, fascinated by enormous vegetables, awed by lumberjacks, and sickened by too much fair food along with the rest of us.

What Really Happened: We didn't go to the State Fair, because for the first time in most people's memory, it was closed on Sunday. As it should have been.

What Should Have Happened: We should have driven a couple hours to Cincinnati and gone to King's Island on Sunday.

What Really Happened: The suggestion to my beloved that we toss everyone in the car and go to King's Island was summarily shot down. Party pooper. (Every party needs one. That's why I keep him around.) So instead, he took the boys shopping for sports equipment so that they can toss it in random places throughout the house and then frantically wander around looking for it when they are due at practice in 15 minutes play football. Then they went to see a movie about talking monkeys. Or apes. Or something. All I know is James Franco was in it (James Franco!) and instead of seeing that, I took Mary to see a movie with little blue people in it. Not even a fair contest: The movie with James Franco wins--even though I didn't see it--just because he's in it. To be fair, my movie did have Neil Patrick Harris, who cracks me up. Well, usually he cracks me up. This time, I just cringed and I might have whimpered, "Oh Doogie, how far you've fallen." On the upside, Tim Gunn made a cameo appearance. Tim Gunn! He's the whole reason I watch Project Runway. His intelligent and oft-hilarious critiques of the designers' works in progress along with his "Make it work" line never fails to win me. Plus, my movie had a scene with digitized cat vomit. Um...no. Just, no.

What Should Have Happened: I should have cleaned up this hell hole and done some laundry.

What Really Happened: I got sucked into Pinterest and then wound up making a recipe for double chocolate loaf with peanut butter spread that I found there. And then I made fresh salsa with the tomatoes from my garden that have been sitting on my counter for several days.

What Should Have Happened: I should have liked the salsa.

What Really Happened: I LOVED the fresh salsa and it has now ruined me for salsa from a jar forevermore. (Heh. I always wanted to use that word.)

What Should Have Happened: I should have thought of something interesting to write about.

What Really Happened: Um...you got this instead.

Another Letter, But This Time It's Official

We got a letter from our HOA last week stating that there had been a complaint about our lawn. It further stated that we were not in compliance with covenants if our lawn/weeds were overgrown and that we should take immediate action before the HOA was forced to take action at our expense. It then went on to say that if we had already done something about our godforsaken wilderness, abandoned lot that looked like squatters had taken over, statement to the neighborhood that we obviously descended from white trash and my lord what's next a couch on the lawn?, our lawn, that we could disregard this letter.

Don't you love that? Here, folks, read this letter that points to a passive aggressive streak in one of your neighbors. Then think about the ways that the HOA can reach into your wallet just because it can. Then feel shamed because obviously you are not worthy of living in this neighborhood. And oh yeah! Never mind.

ARRRRRRGGGHGHGHGH!!!!

Would you like to know what's wrong with our front lawn? Well, I'll tell you, but you have to keep it quiet. It's shameful. It might cause you to think less of me. Are you ready? Okay, here it is: dandelions.

Now, before you run away from your screens screaming and wailing and gnashing your teeth or doing an online search for sackcloth and ashes so that you might properly grieve this horrendousness, (Don't mess with me today spellcheck, I am totally declaring the wordness of "horrendousness." And, by the way, I'm declaring it for "wordness" too. So just shut it, spell check!) let me state for the record: WE HAVE DANDELIONS. Oh, Sweet Mother Jumper do we ever have dandelions.

But!

We have been working on those dandelions. We, and by that of course, I mean my Beloved, religiously spray them with killer and make them get all twisty and brown. Then we mow them down. We have even taken a bid on getting our front lawn re-sodded. But let me tell you what we, and by that of course I mean any of us in this household, DON'T do:

*We don't spend our kids' college funds on getting new grass. (Okay, so maybe that's a bit of hyperbole, but the bid still came in in the thousands. Thousands. For grass, people. Right now, we are just not willing to do the sort of fuzzy accounting that would justify it.)

*We don't go out and spend our time on our knees trying to dig dandelions out of the Indiana clay. We might spend time on our knees praying for sanity to deal with our neighbors--or even sanity for our neighbors--but we just aren't going to do that.

*We don't tell our children that they cannot play on the grass because then it wouldn't look nice and might be a violation of The Covenants. Yes, our front lawn is patchy. I'm sure some of it is due to children playing football and such on it. I'm also pretty sure that this lawn was utter crap when we moved in, after it sat neglected for two years. We have kids. They play. Our lawn will always reflect that. Thank God.

*We don't spend our waking hours critiquing the neighbors lawns.

Does our lawn look good? No. It's not what we'd like it to be, but it also, if we let it, would consume time and/or money that we aren't willing to invest in it right now.

Is it the worst on the block? Probably. But it doesn't look like an abandoned lot. In fact, once the dandelions get mowed, it doesn't look too bad. It's still patchy, but so are some other lawns.

Are my neighbors busybody crazies with too much time on their hands? I'm going to jump out on a limb here and say, um, Hell. YUP! I would respectfully submit that they put their rather large noses to work somewhere else.

Perhaps instead of lamenting the state of the lawn 15 yards to the south, they should start lamenting the state of some of the neighborhoods 15 miles to the south. Perhaps they could put their considerable skills to use in schools that never have enough help and kids who never have someone to listen or advocate for them. Perhaps they could work in a shelter for folks who don't have a home, let alone a lawn. Perhaps they could use some of the time that they spend worrying over the state of neighbors lawns volunteering with the Red Cross where they could worry over people who really need some worry and concern.

And perhaps monkeys will fly out of my butt and sing Jingle Bells. I know that they will not do any of those things, because those are hard things. It's hard to get involved in the lives of those who have less. It's messy to jump in and do the hard work of helping others and become involved in their lives. It's easy to sit on your highly manicured lawn and look down your nose at other people. Happens all the time.

Blogger was broken for a couple days last week and so I was unable to blog about this when I had a full head of steam. That's probably a good thing. It allowed me some space and perspective--two things that are almost always a good thing to have. I have to admit that I didn't have any grace. I immediately started to rant about this neighborhood and its relative unfriendliness and its competitive nature. I might have called the neighbors names that rhyme with "witch" and "hatspit" crazy. I bemoaned the fact that we have worked hard on improving this house and making it a nice place to live, but none of the neighbors would know, because none of them ever come over to chat when we are outside. I was full of self-pity and ready to heap abuse on my neighbors. But blogger was broken, so I couldn't.

And now, even though it makes such great blog fodder, I declare this the last post I will write about these neighbors. It doesn't do me any good to continue to focus on this stuff. I will continue to wave and be friendly. I will continue to pray for all the families in this neighborhood--especially when I don't want to. I (Beloved) will continue to work on the weeds and improve the lawn. And I will start to look for the positives in my neighbors. Short of murder--or something really funny--you'll not be hearing about them from me again. It just isn't worth it for me.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sit on my patio in my back yard. It's beautiful and lush and full of flowers. It's a pretty and serene place. And none of my neighbors can see it! Bwahahahahaha!!!

Randoms

I got out my sewing machine yesterday. And by "got out" I mean that I removed several metric tons of crap that covered it. It was almost as if someone had put that stuff on top of it to purge the very memory of its existence. I had found this very cute idea, you see, and thought that it would make a very cute end of the year gift for some of the teachers that have been kind enough not only to put up with my kids on a daily basis, but to educate them as well! All that would be required of my machine would be several simple zigzag stitches. Easy, right? No big deal, correct? HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I may have stated here before that my sewing machine hates me. That has to be the reason that my bobbin thread kept tangling. And I'm not talking a little knot. I'm talking "shut down the machine because half a spool of thread is tangled in this freaking thing" kind of tangled. So tangled that even Rapunzel would have been jealous. So tangled that I cursed the Singers, their stupid machine, and their family even unto the generations. So tangled that I cursed the invention of the needle. So tangled that I threw my project in a heap, glared at the machine and told it that it was going back to the bottom of the pile of crap in my closet and it could molder there for the rest of its time on this earth. Hmph.

Anyone want to make some simple zigzag stitches for me?

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Mother Nature has it in for me. First she decides that it would be great to try to throw me into depression by hiding the sun and sending rain and cold temperatures for nearly all of April. Then she decides to skip the normally beautiful and temperate month of May and just head for the yawning mouth of hell that is July. There's something wrong with having the air conditioner turned on in May in Indiana.

And she has also told the cottonwood trees to have a party and send their fluff into the air like so much confetti so that my family and I wake in the mornings with clogged sinuses and crusty eyes. She has also tried to ruin any grilling that I do with this fluff because it doesn't care where it lands or if it will commit nature's version of suicide by landing on my grill and any of the food that might be on it.

Bite me, Mother Nature.

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Maggie was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society last week. We are mighty proud. Sometimes she doesn't even seem 14, such is her maturity. Aaaaaand then she proves that she is indeed a teenager with some sort of hormonal induced fit of pique. Or eye rolling. Yeah. The eye rolling is proof that she is still a teenager.

Still. So proud.

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I wish that I had the guts to send out a letter to teachers at the beginning of May that I am off duty for the month. I am no longer interested in ridiculous homework, projects that require more than minimal time or effort (read: anything more than my signature), or carnivals or fairs in which you not only want my attendance but you ask that I volunteer time, money, and/or baked goods as well. I say that really, once DST goes into effect and the evening is extended, my only homework should involve the many different ways I can use my grill (sans cottonwood fluff, of course) and inventive ways of getting my family to do fun stuff outside.

Alas, I am a Gutless Wonder and have not sent such a letter.

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Sean had a baseball game last night. On one of his at bats, he hit a single. Yay! Then he stole second. Yippee! Then he stole third--had to slide and totally evaded the tag. Wahoo! He knocked third base loose. Then the ball was over thrown at home and he was waved on by his coach. You know what my boy did? You know, my boy who can't pick up his laundry or wet bath towels? He was trying to put the base back.

He knew he should be running, but he was frantic with trying to get the base put to rights. The coaches were yelling, jumping, and windmilling their arms wildly. The parents were yelling "Run! RUN!" and my sweet boy was trying to put the base back. Eventually something clicked (and thankfully there was another overthrown ball--gotta love Little League) and he dropped the base and sprinted head down, arms pumping for home where he scored.

Completely made my night. If you are feeling the least bit grumpy or out of sorts, I highly recommend watching young kids play sports. I can fairly guarantee that you will feel better afterwards.