I've Been Bitten!

The bug, it has bitten me again. I got home from work yesterday and just had to do some stuff. My tolerance for projects comes in spurts and jags. I find some things I want to work on and then I may be preoccupied with those things for days or weeks and then? Meh. I don't have the interest anymore and a sort of ennui sets in and I couldn't care less about projects and such.

But now, I am infected by the bug that has bitten me and I must! do! stuff! So I found myself last night after the children were bathed, storied up, and (supposedly) tucked into bed, speculating on the placement of my family room furniture. Yes, I am clinically insane. So what did I do? Well, I didn't move furniture. Not at first anyway. First I got out the measuring tape and measured the room and the furnishings, (and made snarky remarks to people when they asked me "whatcha doin'?") then I transferred all of my chicken scratch to graph paper and played "house" via paper scraps. Then, when I was happy with the arrangement of the furniture on paper, I got to moving furniture.

We've been in this house for a little over a year and I haven't been happy with the furniture placement in my family room for at least 364 of those days. But I've had bigger fish to fry, you know? Suddenly though, something just made it absolutely unbearable to have that furniture placed where it was for even one more day. I keep telling you people that I am loony. NOW do you believe me??? So I moved it all around.

And then the comments started.

The long-suffering husband: "Finally! My chair is facing the television and I don't have to crane my neck. Now if you would just place a cooler and boxes of snacks next to the chair I'll never have to move."

The teenager: "I don't like it. I liked it better the other way." (Best said in a whiny voice.)

The eldest boy child: "Oh! You rearranged everything! So now you're resting on the couch, huh? I guess it's hard work to move all that furniture. You should have called me. I would have helped you. Moving furniture is better than homework any day."

The youngest boy child: "Hey. You moved stuff." (Thank you, Captain Obvious!)

The youngest girl child: "Hey!! Who moved the furniture? I'm so confused!"

Things still aren't the way I'd like them, but I'm working with a room that has a fireplace, four windows, two built-in bookcases and a very large arched doorway. There's only so much I can do.

I can say that the rearranging bug has been tamed. For awhile, anyway. I'm too old for that stuff. Next time I'm totally writing a note to excuse my son from homework and letting him move furniture instead. It'll be a lesson in geometry. And physics.

Stay tuned tomorrow for a project that I finished and am so pleased with. It was easy and the results made me squee with joy.

Excuse me, now. I have to go find my spray paint.

Return To Normal

The dog is much better and therefore, life is much better. Seriously, you cannot be optimistic when your dog is having intestinal issues and you are the janitor. It was a great time to point out life lessons to my children, however. I told them that they needed to do well in school, otherwise, they could spend their lives cleaning up after dogs. So, there was that, anyway.

Saturday Patrick, James and I went to the CYO City Championship game and watched the other 5th grade team. It was fun to cheer them on. James watched from the sidelines with his teammates and they were excited for the other team when they came away victorious. Nothing but smiles were to be found on my son's face. What a difference a week makes, eh?

Then Saturday afternoon I sat down on my bedroom floor and folded laundry for long enough to watch almost all of Dirty Dancing. That's a lot of clothes, my friends. I learned two things from this marathon folding session: 1. I really need to make a point of folding clothes in a more timely manner, and 2. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

In the afternoon, Patrick and I headed to a store with which I engage in a love/hate relationship: Lowe's. We went to look at tile for the mudroom. We also looked at bathroom fixtures for the basement bath--you know, for someday when the basement finally gets finished. And cabinets for the basement. And carpet. And countertops for the kitchen. And a new stove. Yeah, there was a whole lot of dreaming going on there, but it's been a while since we've done that and it was fun. It'll continue to be fun until work actually starts on any project, then I will find myself cursing Lowe's and just how much time and money we spend there.

Saturday evening found me shuttling my daughter and her friends to and from the movies. Part of me longs for the day that she can drive. Then the more sane and rational part of me screams at that side of me that I am insane for wanting such a thing because that would mean my daughter would be driving. My daughter! Driving! AAAAAACCCKKK!!

After all of that shuttling, I had worked up powerful thirst and the couch was calling my name. So Patrick and I sat on the couch, drinks in hand, and watched Chevy Chase, Randy Quaid, and John Candy in "Vacation." It's been years since I've watched the whole thing and I had forgotten how funny it was. It's possible that consuming a glass or two of wine while viewing it makes it funnier. Hard to say.

Then, Sunday was spent with church and church-type activities and of course watching the Colts game. They won, but there was a point where I almost had to leave the room because I thought they were going to blow it. The best part of watching the game was tossing the football back and forth with James during commercial breaks (when told by my husband that I was breaking my own rules about throwing balls in the house, I told him to shut it because I'm da momma.) and watching James impersonate a dancing, plucked turkey. I really need a video camera to capture such activities for posterity and future blackmail.

You know what? My neighbors were gone this weekend. You know what else? My boys played with all the other neighborhood boys and there wasn't a fight to be found. Why, it was completely peaceful. Wonder what the common denominator in that equation could be??? Perhaps we are not actually the problem. Things to ponder...

All of this is to say that for all of the drama and messiness of last week, we are back to normal. Well, normal for us, anyway. Whatever that is. And I couldn't be happier to be there.

If I Believed In Karma, I Might Think I Was Karma's B****

So after the fantastic "meeting" with my neighbor, I came home and was in the house about 3.3 seconds when Tilly took an explosive and lavish poo on the family room carpet. And I'm sorry if you are reading this over your breakfast bagel, but it wasn't just poo. It was diarrhea. On my carpet.

I hustled her outside where she proceeded to finish her business. Then I came back inside, opened windows to the frosty evening air to get the stink out, and then cleaned up the mess. And by cleaned up, I mean gagged my way through a roll of paper towels and carpet cleaner while still not making a dent in the resultant stain.

And remember how I said I was going to fold laundry and have a glass of wine after the whole neighbor debacle? Never happened. Instead, I spent the next 4 hours before bedtime trying to bathe children and shuttle the dog outside so that she could answer the increasingly urgent call of her bowels.

All was well until 3:21 a.m. when I heard an unpleasant, um, gurgling noise. I shot straight up in bed, while simultaneously yelling "Tilly, NO!" and trying to shove my feet into my slippers. I fumbled through shutting off the security alarm, hustled the dog downstairs and got her leashed as quickly as possible. Then I took her outside where she proceeded to spend the next 15 minutes trying to evacuate what smelled like a very putrefied skunk from her bowels. You're welcome. Aren't you glad this isn't Smell-o-vision? And did I mention that it was freezing out? And that I didn't have a jacket on, but was wearing my pajamas--the ones with a short sleeve shirt? Yeah. So that was awful.

Then it got worse, because I had to go clean up the mess. It was, well, completely and utterly awful in its absolute awfulness.

Tilly belly crawled into our room, wagging her tail and looking at me with doleful eyes. I patted the floor next to me and she crawled over and laid her head in my lap, submissively wagging her tail and showing her belly. I told her it was okay. "I know your belly hurts," I cooed. "It'll be okay. But if you do this again, I'm totally divorcing you, dogbreath."

She laid companionably next to me as I breathed through my mouth and gagged and scrubbed. I bagged up the horrors, told Tilly that I'd be right back and went downstairs to put the bag in the garage. When I came back up, she had pooed yet again. In several spots. With great abandon.

"I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you," I hissed. I'm not sure what culture this is from, but I'm totally claiming it as my own. It's very liberating even though it may not be valid.

This time, there was no companion beside me as I cleaned up the crime scene. She knew better. She slinked over to her bed and started to snore. Occasionally she would open one eye and look at me in a baleful manner, as if to say, "Haven't you got that cleaned up yet? All of this racket is keeping me awake! Rude!"

I'm not sure how many times I divorced her while I was cleaning up that particular mess, but I said it many times with fervor.

In the midst of all of this cleaning and running the dog in and out, well, you know what happened, right? I got a migraine. Of course I did, because: Brouhaha with neighbor+doggy diarrhea+interrupted sleep=Monster Migraine from Hell.

I took my medicine and tried to sleep while not actually sleeping so that I could listen for any more disturbances from the dog. The last time I looked at the clock, it read 5:27. My alarm went off at 6 a.m.

I spent my morning taking the dog out. And discovering and cleaning up a mess that I had missed in the predawn hours. Then I volunteered in Sean's classroom, all the while praying that it wouldn't look like a ritual sacrifice occurred in my home in my brief absence. Then I shuttled children some places. And finally around dinner time, I took the Tilly to the vet, who prescribed Pepto Bismol for the dumb dog. Yes, the pink stuff. Apparently you can give it to your dog. Who knew? Obviously not me or I'd have done it much quicker and without paying $45 dollars for the information.

She seems better now, which is good. I might even reconsider my divorce from her after seeing how the carpet turns out when the professionals have had a go at it. But you know what I didn't get done? The laundry.

Oh well. Clothes are overrated.

Stick A Fork In Me. I'm DONE!

*******ALERT********
This is not a happy post. I am usually much more positive. If you are looking for something that is more typical of me, I suggest you go read another of my posts. Tomorrow, I will be more myself. I promise.
*********************

Apparently life on our street was all rainbows and puppy dogs and unicorn farts before we moved in. It seems the children all got along, never fought, and there was never an unkind word spoken or a disagreement of any kind. Never! In ten years! Now, since we have moved in, it would seem that children are brawling in the streets and cursing like sailors. And my children are the apparent ringleaders.

Or so a neighbor had the nerve to say to my face.

This would be a great place to live--if it weren't for all the CRAZY ASS NEIGHBORS!!

My fingers are shaking and I can hardly type a coherent thought, so I am going to quit. But I do feel a little better now that I've vented to the universe.

Now I'm going to prove the neighbors right about just what a horrible parent I am by consuming a glass or two of wine while I fold 8 loads of laundry that have been sitting in my laundry room for the better part of the week. You wait. The next report will be that I am a drunk and a horrible housekeeper.

Well. I own up to the latter. These nutbars just might turn me into the former...

Four Little Words I'm Starting To Hate

The sun was setting, the hour golden. Helmeted players stretched and warmed up on the field as the bleachers became crowded with spectators. The crisp air was filled with the sounds of laughter as good-natured ribbing and banter was tossed back and forth in the stands. Anticipation rose as the seconds ticked off of the clock. It was almost time.

A semi-final game in the CYO City Championships was about to begin. The opponents were ready. They knew each other well. They had seen each other's moves and had good ideas about what to expect. They were nervous and anxious. This was it. The winner would move on to the championship game. The losers would be thrown in the lion's den.

Okay. Not really. It was all true right up until that last line. Just had to make sure you were running on all cylinders. Heh.

As you may have gathered, James had a ball game. It was special because it was a semi-finals game. His team has been here in past seasons. Not that that makes it any less special, because post-season games are always special--and not a given. We tried to make that point clear. But it was a little more anticipated because of the opponent: the other team from our own church.

Our church has two 5th grade teams. They have the numbers for one, obviously, but the powers that be--I don't know who makes those decisions, although I don't think it's the Pope, that seems a little too micromanagment, ya know?--decided that rather than one big team with a deep bench, they'd rather have two teams so that all the boys would get plenty of chances to play. As parents, we all appreciate that idea, and the boys seem to like it too. So we have a 5th grade blue team and a 5th grade white team. And Monday night, they faced off under the lights to try to make it to the City Championships.

These boys, in the last three years have all been on each other's teams, as the teams change from year to year. Two years ago, the team my son was not on went on to the championship game and lost. Last year, my son's team went to the championship game and lost. This year, it was brother against brother, friend against friend to even get to the championship game. Both teams wanted it. Bad.

The great thing? The coaches really emphasized character and sportsmanship all season and especially for this game. The boys all really wanted to win, but they knew that there was great pride in reaching the semi-final. They had worked hard. They were proud of themselves. They also knew that some of their friends would be going home sad at the end of the night.

It was a fun game. It was fun to be able to root for both sides--cheer on boys that we've known for several years as we watched them make great plays. It was nice to be able to pat their parents on the back or give thumbs up in the stands. It was fun to joke about having a rumble in the parking lot after the game.

Don't get me wrong, it was intense, as each side wanted victory, but it was nice to know that at the end of the evening, there wouldn't be any sour grapes. It was nice to know that a victory would be celebrated by both sides, even when tempered with a tinge of sadness for friends that wouldn't be moving on. It was hilarious to watch the cheerleaders try to figure out exactly who they were rooting for and whether or not they should do an offense or defense cheer and then watching them give up and just do simple "blue and white" and "Royals" cheers.

It was not so fun walking my heartbroken son to the parking lot. It was not so fun watching him try and hold himself together as he congratulated his friends on the other team. It sucks to lose, no matter who you are losing to. It was not so fun to spew forth worthless platitudes to try to make him feel better.

For three years, I have been saying four little words that are starting to make me want to stick a fork in my eardrums so that I won't have to hear myself say them anymore. They are the words that every Cub fan knows. They are words that have a hint of hope in them. They are always said with your chin up and maybe a quiver on your lips, but definitely with a fire in your belly.

As we sat in the chilly car, waiting for the traffic to move in the parking lot, I turned in my seat and looked at my son and said those words: There's always next year.

He sniffed and nodded. He stared silently out the window as we drove. We turned on the radio and tried to find music he would like, to cheer him up. It was a quiet 40 minute drive home. But by the time we had pulled in the driveway, my beautiful boy had taken those words to heart.

"Next year it'll be us. Next year we'll have our turn. For now, I don't have to rush to get to practice. I'll have time to get my homework done. I'll get my weekends back! And dad, do you think that maybe on Saturday we can go and watch the white team in the championship game? I think I'd like to see it."

It may be next year--or years beyond-- for my son's team to get to the big game and win it. But I'm mightily glad I don't have to wait until next year to see what a wonderful, pragmatic, and incredibly smart young man he's growing into.

Well played, my boy. You are a winner.

We Got A Lot Of Booty...

...and because of the candy we hauled in, my booty is growing to the size of a small state. Say, bigger than Rhode Island, but smaller than Connecticut.

We used to give our kids a dime for each piece of candy that they were willing to part with, hoping that the offer of cold, hard caysh would cause them loosen the death grip on the candy bags. In the last couple of years, they have been more interested in eating too much candy than in any easy money they could make off of me. I didn't even offer this year. I just told them that somebody owed me some Snickers bars and that I accept mini, snack size and full size bars. You know the response I got?

Let's just say I could hear the crickets chirping...

Anyway!

There were costumes! There was excitement! There was the parent approved ringing of doorbells and then the handing out and mass consumption of candy! My dear neighbor, Janie, (whom I am now certain harbors a deep-seated, but politely unexpressed hatred for me) told my boys that when they were done, they should come back by her house and she would give them any left over candy she had. Yes, when she told me this, I called her on her hatred of me. "WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!" I lamented. "I thought you liked me!" Then I threatened to make her keep my children for the next fortnight it will take to consume all of that candy and excrete all of that sugar. And do you know what she had the audacity to do? She laughed at me! She gave my children metric tons of candy and then she laughed. It's true, then. She hates me.

Anyway! (Again! What do you mean I'm a little off-task? I think it's possibly a side-effect of a bad drug combination. That's what happens when you combine Snickers bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. What do you mean they aren't drugs? They're like crack to me!)

The children were all dressed in their chosen costumes and ready to roll. James was a gangster, complete with gun and tough-guy mobster accent. "Trick or treat! Gimme all your candy, see. And nobody'll get hurt, see. Don't go bein' a wise guy, wise guy, or I'll have to introduce you to my li'l friend!"

Truly, it was the fedora that slayed me. I took one look at his gorgeous green eyes and that hat and I keeled right over and died. Sorry girls, but someday he will break many of your hearts!

Sean was some sort of future crime-fighter/cop/superhero. He can tell you what was on his costume bag. I called it "DON'T PUT THAT THING ON BEFORE HALLOWEEN AND THEN BE VERY CAREFUL BECAUSE IT COST WAY MORE THAN IT'S WORTH AND I CAN'T TAKE IT BACK AND RETURN IT OR GET A REFUND!"

Yeah, his name for it was probably better. You couldn't see his handsome face, but he cracked me the heck up by lifting up his muscle-suited arms and treating us all to a "gun show."

Mary wanted to be a ballerina. This is very nearly the same costume she wore last year. Except last year she had wings and we called her a fairy. It's all very similar when you are five. Whatever it was, she looked very cute and she took her trick or treating duties very seriously, reminding us all not to forget to say "thank you," to be happy with whatever we got because we could trade later, and not to be grabby.

Well, I'll be darned. Sometimes they do listen!

I am not usually a big participant in Halloween, but this year, I decided to dress up. I was Little Red Riding Hood and Patrick was The Big Bad Wolf. When I mentioned to him what I wanted to dress up like, he said, "Hey! Why do we even have to wait for Halloween?!" And then he gave me a leering grin and a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. He would become a very convincing wolf...

Look at him. He told me that he wasn't smiling on purpose, because he was trying to look big and bad and mean. I think he looks more like he's bored and that he cannot believe that he let his wife talk him into this. Truthfully, though, in just about every picture we've taken since our wedding pictures, this is the look on his face. He has a beautiful smile, but he never shows it in photos.

Oh my word. I just read what I wrote. Maybe the reason he looks that way in every picture since our wedding pictures is because he really is thinking "I'm bored and I cannot believe someone talked me into this life!!"

Or maybe he's just taken his Clint Eastwood impersonation a little too far...

Whatever. I convinced him that it would be fun and he totally wore that hat all around the neighborhood.

I guess it's a good thing that he didn't discover that it has been Tilly's stinky, forbidden chew toy until after he got home.

He's really excited for next year already. I told him I'd buy him one of those Colts hats that is a horse's head and he could go as a Colt and I'd dress as a Colt's Cheerleader.

Yeah, right. Oh well. A man's gotta have a dream, right?

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and hide some of the Snickers and Reese's Cups before they all get eaten. Maybe I should do it with my eyes closed so that I can't remember where I hid them. You know, before my butt starts to gain even more area and people start asking me if my butt is trying to give Massachusetts a run for its money.

Big Day

Saturday was a Big Day round these here parts. And not just because we dressed up in costumes and went door to door begging for candy. (Photos coming tomorrow!) It was a Big Day because there was an event that touches upon someone's eternity.

My son Sean was baptized into Christ on Saturday morning. My dad took his confession of faith. Then he baptized him in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

My mother provided hugs while Sean beamed.

I took pictures and tried not to have a big ugly cry and melt into a puddle of goo.

Then later that evening there was candy.

Yes, there was much rejoicing here on Earth and in Heaven above. How could there not be?