Do you ever find yourself doing a chore that you've done a million times before, only this time it is annoying beyond all reason?
I was vacuuming, but that is only the middle of the story. First, Sam was up at 5. I ushered him back to bed only to have Clooney join the fracas at 5:45. So, I was up. Came down, let dog out, fed S, fed Clooney, read news online, checked email, and sat. It was only 6:30. At 6:30, E comes down and so everyone except Dad is up now. I figure, day starts now! The cord is too long, it gets tangled, I give it a firm FWAP! so that it will get moving and knock over my coffee. Now, I have to go back and clean up the coffee. S is whining, and running over all my nice work with his construction truck whose only job is to run over my toes. Now, the actual chore begins. I started to Floor mate my floors. No, not obscene breeding program for hardwood...my upright floor scrubber (LOVE IT!) I am cleaning up the roughly 6 tons of dust, powder, sawdust and crap left in the house during the laying of the bamboo upstairs. My feet have been filthy all week. People tracking in and out of the house, up and down the stairs. Blech.
So, I am cleaning all the downstairs floors, then run the vacuum over all the area rugs. M comes down and asks "Was there an accident? An emergency?" I get it. He was annoyed by the Hoover wake up call.
But now, it's only 7:30 and ALL of my downstairs floors are clean. I can move on to the upstairs and be done before I have to take S to school. Great. Then, I can run and have all the yucky jobs done by 10. Then, groceries, cook dinner, make beds, and do the rest of the not so yucky jobs. All by 2:30 so as to get E from carpool. And everything will be shiny, happy clean! Ta-Dah!
Wait.
I just realized I am wearing the same shirt that I went to bed in night before last. That can't be good.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
No Good Deed
Christmas is the season of giving. Of charity. Of helping those in need. With that beautiful sentiment in my heart, I decided to help one of Salvation Army's "Angels." The kids ask for a gift, the Salvation Army prints the kid's name and wish on a card, we fulfill the wish, and the Salvation Army delivers it to the family. Instant Karma. Instant happy child. Christmas is saved.
I thought it would be positive to include my children in this anonymous act of charity. I thought they could go through a store with no hope of anything for themselves and be excited for a little girl who only wants a tea set for Christmas. I thought this would be a glimpse for them into their life of privilege and plenty.
E is in the car asking me questions about our Angel. What's her name? How old is she--things I could answer. Where does she live? Why doesn't she have any money? How did she get on the Salvation Army's list--things I couldn't answer.
Then, a rare silence in the car. We 're driving to Target. I was feeling good about myself. I was thinking that I'd reached the heart of my precious boy. That modeling charity was going to change his life in some profound way. Then, a crisis:
"Why won't she have Christmas just because her parents are poor? Won't Santa bring her gifts?"
Oh, crap. I should have seen this coming. From like ten miles off. I have no answer. My heart is pounding. I have visions of a mob of angry school moms coming to get me because my kid denied Santa to their kids. I am groping for answers. I can't think. Traffic. Where is a red light when you need one? Vague. I have to be vague. Belief. Magic. Wonder. I can do this.
"Well, when you are down on your luck, and you have no money and everything in your life is just about survival, it's hard to believe in magical things. And Santa, of course, is a magical person. If you don't or can't believe in magic, then the magic doesn't happen to you."
Ah. That was good. I have a knack for improv. I'm feeling safe now. Chew on that, you precocious six year old.
Silence. Wheels are turning.
Then:
"Shouldn't the magic happen when you need it the most?"
Is my kid Tiny Tim Cratchitt or what? Has he been watching sappy Hallmark movies on TV? Do we even get the Lifetime Network? Where is this going?
Finally:
"Santa's crap, right? It's all parents."
That's it. My days in the PTA are over. My kid and I are going to be run out of school by moms with pitchforks and torches. Inspector Poirot wouldn't have come to this conclusion this fast. Where the hell is Target?
"I didn't get a guide book that told me to pretend to be Santa."
"MOOOOM," annoyed, slightly amused.
"Honey. Like all magical things in the world, you have to believe. If you believe in Santa, then he, and everything about him is real. That's why people love Christmas so much. Everything is possible."
Target. Thank God. "Everybody out. What kind of tea set are we buying?"
"Probably something dumb with princesses on it."
Holy crap. I killed Santa.
I thought it would be positive to include my children in this anonymous act of charity. I thought they could go through a store with no hope of anything for themselves and be excited for a little girl who only wants a tea set for Christmas. I thought this would be a glimpse for them into their life of privilege and plenty.
E is in the car asking me questions about our Angel. What's her name? How old is she--things I could answer. Where does she live? Why doesn't she have any money? How did she get on the Salvation Army's list--things I couldn't answer.
Then, a rare silence in the car. We 're driving to Target. I was feeling good about myself. I was thinking that I'd reached the heart of my precious boy. That modeling charity was going to change his life in some profound way. Then, a crisis:
"Why won't she have Christmas just because her parents are poor? Won't Santa bring her gifts?"
Oh, crap. I should have seen this coming. From like ten miles off. I have no answer. My heart is pounding. I have visions of a mob of angry school moms coming to get me because my kid denied Santa to their kids. I am groping for answers. I can't think. Traffic. Where is a red light when you need one? Vague. I have to be vague. Belief. Magic. Wonder. I can do this.
"Well, when you are down on your luck, and you have no money and everything in your life is just about survival, it's hard to believe in magical things. And Santa, of course, is a magical person. If you don't or can't believe in magic, then the magic doesn't happen to you."
Ah. That was good. I have a knack for improv. I'm feeling safe now. Chew on that, you precocious six year old.
Silence. Wheels are turning.
Then:
"Shouldn't the magic happen when you need it the most?"
Is my kid Tiny Tim Cratchitt or what? Has he been watching sappy Hallmark movies on TV? Do we even get the Lifetime Network? Where is this going?
Finally:
"Santa's crap, right? It's all parents."
That's it. My days in the PTA are over. My kid and I are going to be run out of school by moms with pitchforks and torches. Inspector Poirot wouldn't have come to this conclusion this fast. Where the hell is Target?
"I didn't get a guide book that told me to pretend to be Santa."
"MOOOOM," annoyed, slightly amused.
"Honey. Like all magical things in the world, you have to believe. If you believe in Santa, then he, and everything about him is real. That's why people love Christmas so much. Everything is possible."
Target. Thank God. "Everybody out. What kind of tea set are we buying?"
"Probably something dumb with princesses on it."
Holy crap. I killed Santa.
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Flooring Fable
OK. Some of you have been wondering what E did to merit punishment so severe as to leave him snivelling at 5 AM. Well, to put it simply, he ran away. Once upon a time, there was a 6 year old boy who was too big for his britches. He decided he was NOT excited about bamboo flooring that his parents had generously decided to install in his room to replace the rotten and worn out carpet, stomped off, and left the house. I THOUGHT he was in the closed off guest bedroom, only to find him skulking into the house 15 minutes later.
"Where were you?" "Driveway. I'm mad that you're tearing up the carpet." "I'm sorry. I'm glad you were able to cool off."
Next thing I know, the phone is ringing. My next door neighbor asks if I have E. "Why of course, who else would have my beloved, but bamboo-grass intolerant son?" "Well, Mrs. P, I just saw him walking down the road with no shoes and no sweatshirt. I sent him home and told him to have you phone me to be sure he got there safely."
"Well thank you for this informative yet humiliating phone conversation. We must chat again soon."
(What ensues next is unfit for publication. Suffice to say, E is grounded like a drunk pilot. He is going nowhere. EVER. EVER EVER.)
So, that is the fable about the child and the bamboo flooring. Let this be a lesson for all you boys and girls out there: If you don't like the flooring choice your parents have made, shut it and deal. Otherwise, you will be NAILED TO IT.
The End
"Where were you?" "Driveway. I'm mad that you're tearing up the carpet." "I'm sorry. I'm glad you were able to cool off."
Next thing I know, the phone is ringing. My next door neighbor asks if I have E. "Why of course, who else would have my beloved, but bamboo-grass intolerant son?" "Well, Mrs. P, I just saw him walking down the road with no shoes and no sweatshirt. I sent him home and told him to have you phone me to be sure he got there safely."
"Well thank you for this informative yet humiliating phone conversation. We must chat again soon."
(What ensues next is unfit for publication. Suffice to say, E is grounded like a drunk pilot. He is going nowhere. EVER. EVER EVER.)
So, that is the fable about the child and the bamboo flooring. Let this be a lesson for all you boys and girls out there: If you don't like the flooring choice your parents have made, shut it and deal. Otherwise, you will be NAILED TO IT.
The End
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Sunday School
This morning, karma came home to roost. I'd like to quote my friend T, who forecast bad things:
...bragging in your blog about your perfectly acceptable day on Friday. It's like
when I'm working in the hospital...the moment anyone talks about how quiet it
is, all hell breaks loose: there's a code, a family member of a patient shows up
drunk, some woman comes in delivering twins who didn't know she was pregnant, someone calls in a bomb threat, 5 nurses call in sick for the next shift, we have 27 admissions from the emergency room, you name it. It's the law...a well known one to us healthcare types. Never speak of how great things are
because the moment you do, WHAM! Next time you have a lovely day, silently count your blessings and SHUT IT!! :)
So, my nice Friday coupled with my Northwestern vicory over Michigan, partnered with a girls' night out on Saturday probably sent the fairness gods into a snit. Therefore, they punished me with Sunday.
E had a fever and woke up all wonky in the middle of the night. Twice. I hooked him up with some Tylenol and sent him on his way. Then, at five, S comes crying into my room. I head him back into the hallway to ask what is wrong. "Sniff. I pooped my pants." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and he hasn't so much pooped as had a fart go awry. It's happened to the best of us. I kiss him, wash him, re-drawer him, and tuck him back in. I am not barely back into my bed when he comes back, "I pooped again." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and clearly, the same event has occurred. We clean, kiss, and re-pant. This time, I snuggle into bed with him, knowing we are getting dangerously close to that time in the morning when it will be too late to go to sleep again: when he will realize it is closer to wake-up than to middle of the night. I cuddle. A hideous stench wafts up. We get up again. Five times. A sharting outbreak.
Then, E has issues. He is sad that he is still under punishment and therefore not allowed on the Sunday Waffle House Outing with Dad. In his most pathetic voice, through sniffles and crocodile tears, he asks if I would please, PLEASE have Dad bring him a chocolate milk from Waffle House. They do so have the best chocolate milk ever.
Forget it. S isn't going anywhere with his unreliable flatulence. E isn't getting off the punishment hook, and Dad isn't going to Waffle House for his own health. I try to explain to E. He joins me and S in S's bed. Now, the first rays of dawn have broken through the trees. Hurry, close their eyes. Don't let them see. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Insert slow motion close-up of scream with vibrating uvula in the back of my throat)
So, it's 5:40. Clooney has heard the action from his crate in the kitchen. He wants in on the dysfunction extravaganza. The boys come down with me, I take out the dog in 30 something weather in my tee shirt. Come in, crack open a Mountain Dew (brewing coffee at this juncture would involve grinding the beans, pouring the water, washing the caraffe, throwing out yesterday's grounds. Too much to process). I would take my caffeine intravenously at this point.
The day has begun. By 6, I have imparted useful learning to my children.
S and E have both learned valuable lessons. E has learned that punishment stings. S has learned to never trust a toot.
...bragging in your blog about your perfectly acceptable day on Friday. It's like
when I'm working in the hospital...the moment anyone talks about how quiet it
is, all hell breaks loose: there's a code, a family member of a patient shows up
drunk, some woman comes in delivering twins who didn't know she was pregnant, someone calls in a bomb threat, 5 nurses call in sick for the next shift, we have 27 admissions from the emergency room, you name it. It's the law...a well known one to us healthcare types. Never speak of how great things are
because the moment you do, WHAM! Next time you have a lovely day, silently count your blessings and SHUT IT!! :)
So, my nice Friday coupled with my Northwestern vicory over Michigan, partnered with a girls' night out on Saturday probably sent the fairness gods into a snit. Therefore, they punished me with Sunday.
E had a fever and woke up all wonky in the middle of the night. Twice. I hooked him up with some Tylenol and sent him on his way. Then, at five, S comes crying into my room. I head him back into the hallway to ask what is wrong. "Sniff. I pooped my pants." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and he hasn't so much pooped as had a fart go awry. It's happened to the best of us. I kiss him, wash him, re-drawer him, and tuck him back in. I am not barely back into my bed when he comes back, "I pooped again." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and clearly, the same event has occurred. We clean, kiss, and re-pant. This time, I snuggle into bed with him, knowing we are getting dangerously close to that time in the morning when it will be too late to go to sleep again: when he will realize it is closer to wake-up than to middle of the night. I cuddle. A hideous stench wafts up. We get up again. Five times. A sharting outbreak.
Then, E has issues. He is sad that he is still under punishment and therefore not allowed on the Sunday Waffle House Outing with Dad. In his most pathetic voice, through sniffles and crocodile tears, he asks if I would please, PLEASE have Dad bring him a chocolate milk from Waffle House. They do so have the best chocolate milk ever.
Forget it. S isn't going anywhere with his unreliable flatulence. E isn't getting off the punishment hook, and Dad isn't going to Waffle House for his own health. I try to explain to E. He joins me and S in S's bed. Now, the first rays of dawn have broken through the trees. Hurry, close their eyes. Don't let them see. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Insert slow motion close-up of scream with vibrating uvula in the back of my throat)
So, it's 5:40. Clooney has heard the action from his crate in the kitchen. He wants in on the dysfunction extravaganza. The boys come down with me, I take out the dog in 30 something weather in my tee shirt. Come in, crack open a Mountain Dew (brewing coffee at this juncture would involve grinding the beans, pouring the water, washing the caraffe, throwing out yesterday's grounds. Too much to process). I would take my caffeine intravenously at this point.
The day has begun. By 6, I have imparted useful learning to my children.
S and E have both learned valuable lessons. E has learned that punishment stings. S has learned to never trust a toot.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A perfectly Acceptable Day
Ok. Today was fun. First, I didn't have to drive E to school. Love that carpool. Second, my worker guys came to tear up my nasty carpet. That carpet was so threadbare. It was practically burlap stretched across padding. Plus, I am told that the previous homeowner had the carpeting steam cleaned every other month. There was no pile left! After pulling up some one else's carpet, I will never put it down again. There were pet stains that had supposedly been "cleaned" and just tons of dust poured out whenever a section of it was rolled up and lifted out. It was gross, gross, gross.
Then, I practiced my running. As I told my friend, MK this morning, I am all set if I am ever chased by an octogenarian mugger. All I am saying is, that if I hope to keep my purse and avoid a trip to the DMV to replace my driver's license, my mugger better not be able to run faster than 5.2 miles an hour for 3 miles.
Otherwise, I'm doomed.
Afterwards, I showered, wolfed down some food, and headed off for a culinary adventure. MK and I went to a company called Bayside Dinners (shameless plug) which is (apparently a term for the industry) a meal assembly place. I made three dinners for the family. Which was great. Because, hey, fun to cook with friends, and three fewer dinners to make in the next few weeks. We ate one dinner tonight, in fact. Yummers.
So, after that, I spent the afternoon with S. M came home early. We all enjoyed the very bare planks of wood upstairs and ate dinner. E was delivered home after school. Love that carpool. The martini at 5 really helped me pull through the early evening. The kids will be in bed in 20 minutes (if all goes according to plan), I will watch last week's TiVo'd CSI and be in bed by 9:30.
Perfecto.
Then, I practiced my running. As I told my friend, MK this morning, I am all set if I am ever chased by an octogenarian mugger. All I am saying is, that if I hope to keep my purse and avoid a trip to the DMV to replace my driver's license, my mugger better not be able to run faster than 5.2 miles an hour for 3 miles.
Otherwise, I'm doomed.
Afterwards, I showered, wolfed down some food, and headed off for a culinary adventure. MK and I went to a company called Bayside Dinners (shameless plug) which is (apparently a term for the industry) a meal assembly place. I made three dinners for the family. Which was great. Because, hey, fun to cook with friends, and three fewer dinners to make in the next few weeks. We ate one dinner tonight, in fact. Yummers.
So, after that, I spent the afternoon with S. M came home early. We all enjoyed the very bare planks of wood upstairs and ate dinner. E was delivered home after school. Love that carpool. The martini at 5 really helped me pull through the early evening. The kids will be in bed in 20 minutes (if all goes according to plan), I will watch last week's TiVo'd CSI and be in bed by 9:30.
Perfecto.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Clock is Ticking
Okay people, it's crunch time. You all have to buck up here with me. We survived the election. We endured Halloween. Hold my hands, this is the tough part. The holidays are upon us. While I have outlined my fondness for Thanksgiving, the extended weekend that surrounds it poses its own problems. And of course, the confluence of Hanukkah and Christmas and New Year's just about takes psychosis into the realm of The Cuckoo's Nest.
My sister, who has been through a rough month--her car was totalled (not her fault), her husband took a job 3 hours away, she hates Halloween more than I do--has married into a gargantuan family. A gargantuan half Jewish family, might I add. There are holiday obligations coming out of nowhere. Where to spend Xmas Eve, Xmas Day, New Year's Eve and Day, Hanukkah, and she's a teacher, so of course she will be in SoCal for all of these blessed events. She's completely overwhelmed and in high level negotiations with her husband.
Me? As I am slightly more fortunate than my sister, I married into a small Jewish Canadian family. So, the Thanksgiving issue is moot. On the upside, we never have a conflict. On the downside, we never have a Thanksgiving feast. Also, none of that Xmas Eve/Day stress. That being said, my family antes up the pot a little with their very tight adhesion to tradition.
So, we are flying in to SoCal on Xmas Eve. I expected all the festivities to be fested so we could drag our jet lagged, tired of our kids, nasty airport food digesting selves into my parents' house, have a VERY stiff drink and sit on our butts for the night. But apparently, tradition requires that my extended family celebrate Xmas Eve at the time my flight lands. So, off I go. I will skip the disgusting airport food, drink the stiff drink on the plane, and bring my jetlagged self into my parents' home with smile on, ready to exchange the familial niceties of the Night Before Xmas.
Yes I can.
I can be buffeted from all sides. M freaks out at me over my family's sale-a-bration of Christmas because of the overwhelming amount of money spent on spoiling our children. More toys than any child could want/need/use.
Yes I can.
I can shop extensively for all of my family, although effectively, we could all write checks, swap them, and shred them.
Yes I can.
I can wrestle my children into photogenic clothes despite all protest.
Yes I can.
I can fly across the country on a series of probably-delayed, ebola-infested planes during the busiest travel season of the year in a time when fuel and baggage surcharges are added just to make everything a little more fun.
Yes I can.
Because this is the land of opportunity. The opportunity to celebrate holy days of diverse faiths together whether we like it or not.
Because this is the land of hope. We can hope it will be easier than it has been the last 6 times we've done it.
Because this is the land of family values. Grinning and bearing it. Spoiling our children. Buying stuff we can't afford because of AIG bailouts or gas prices.
Because this is the f'in holidays, people. Because this is what we do.
We can celebrate the guiding star and the baby in the manger.
We can celebrate the mystically long lasting oil in the temple.
We can welcome peace on Earth.
Put on your Santa hat and smile. The insanity starts.....
NOW.
My sister, who has been through a rough month--her car was totalled (not her fault), her husband took a job 3 hours away, she hates Halloween more than I do--has married into a gargantuan family. A gargantuan half Jewish family, might I add. There are holiday obligations coming out of nowhere. Where to spend Xmas Eve, Xmas Day, New Year's Eve and Day, Hanukkah, and she's a teacher, so of course she will be in SoCal for all of these blessed events. She's completely overwhelmed and in high level negotiations with her husband.
Me? As I am slightly more fortunate than my sister, I married into a small Jewish Canadian family. So, the Thanksgiving issue is moot. On the upside, we never have a conflict. On the downside, we never have a Thanksgiving feast. Also, none of that Xmas Eve/Day stress. That being said, my family antes up the pot a little with their very tight adhesion to tradition.
So, we are flying in to SoCal on Xmas Eve. I expected all the festivities to be fested so we could drag our jet lagged, tired of our kids, nasty airport food digesting selves into my parents' house, have a VERY stiff drink and sit on our butts for the night. But apparently, tradition requires that my extended family celebrate Xmas Eve at the time my flight lands. So, off I go. I will skip the disgusting airport food, drink the stiff drink on the plane, and bring my jetlagged self into my parents' home with smile on, ready to exchange the familial niceties of the Night Before Xmas.
Yes I can.
I can be buffeted from all sides. M freaks out at me over my family's sale-a-bration of Christmas because of the overwhelming amount of money spent on spoiling our children. More toys than any child could want/need/use.
Yes I can.
I can shop extensively for all of my family, although effectively, we could all write checks, swap them, and shred them.
Yes I can.
I can wrestle my children into photogenic clothes despite all protest.
Yes I can.
I can fly across the country on a series of probably-delayed, ebola-infested planes during the busiest travel season of the year in a time when fuel and baggage surcharges are added just to make everything a little more fun.
Yes I can.
Because this is the land of opportunity. The opportunity to celebrate holy days of diverse faiths together whether we like it or not.
Because this is the land of hope. We can hope it will be easier than it has been the last 6 times we've done it.
Because this is the land of family values. Grinning and bearing it. Spoiling our children. Buying stuff we can't afford because of AIG bailouts or gas prices.
Because this is the f'in holidays, people. Because this is what we do.
We can celebrate the guiding star and the baby in the manger.
We can celebrate the mystically long lasting oil in the temple.
We can welcome peace on Earth.
Put on your Santa hat and smile. The insanity starts.....
NOW.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Survivor: Weekend Edition
Sometimes I just wonder how it is that my parents made it through weekends. I think back to when I was a kid and sure, they "let" me spend every Saturday night with my Grandma and Grandpa. But there was a lot of stuff we did Saturday mornings and then all day Sundays. We went to the ocean, we did yard work (man, a lot of yard work. I remember not being able to hold the big black trash bags open properly). We took little day trips. But, come Saturday nights, my parents always knew I was out of the picture.
Grandma's house was great. I think I've written of it before. We watched Love Boat, Diff'rent Strokes, Golden Girls, The Facts of Life (ah, my first memories of George Clooney). Grandpa made popcorn and gave us Eskimo Pies. My aunt would come on Sunday mornings for biscuits and gravy. We'd roller skate, bike, jump rope. My grandma's house was in a real neighborhood, and there was a HUGE park and a great walking trail. I had these awesome roller skates--they were white boots with purple pom poms and purple wheels that sparked when I went really fast--we'd skate while my grandma and aunt walked. I also had a pink bike with a big banana seat and a white basket with plastic daisies on it. I had a scooter and a pedal race car. We played outside and waited for the ice cream truck. In the back yard, grandpa had a garden of tomatoes and peppers and onions that we "helped" take care of. It was all about my sister and me all the time. We ruled at Grandma's house.
But now I get it. It wasn't about us. It was about my parents. It was a big dump off! No WONDER they never punished us by taking away a weekend at Grandma's. The light goes on now that I am a parent. I want someplace to dump off the kids EVERY Saturday night! Like Nebraska's Safe Haven Law...only not so permanent.
One of my girlfriends got a dump off this weekend. Off her little kids went, unsuspecting of their status. Thinking they were getting a special treat. When in fact, it was their parents' treat. Woohoo-ing all the way. Giving each other secret high-fives. Craving that next morning of silence. Quietly boogie-ing down their hallways. Knowing those kids were gone, outta there, MIA, for 24 hours.
I'm so jealous. Well, it's Monday now. School. Woohoo!
Grandma's house was great. I think I've written of it before. We watched Love Boat, Diff'rent Strokes, Golden Girls, The Facts of Life (ah, my first memories of George Clooney). Grandpa made popcorn and gave us Eskimo Pies. My aunt would come on Sunday mornings for biscuits and gravy. We'd roller skate, bike, jump rope. My grandma's house was in a real neighborhood, and there was a HUGE park and a great walking trail. I had these awesome roller skates--they were white boots with purple pom poms and purple wheels that sparked when I went really fast--we'd skate while my grandma and aunt walked. I also had a pink bike with a big banana seat and a white basket with plastic daisies on it. I had a scooter and a pedal race car. We played outside and waited for the ice cream truck. In the back yard, grandpa had a garden of tomatoes and peppers and onions that we "helped" take care of. It was all about my sister and me all the time. We ruled at Grandma's house.
But now I get it. It wasn't about us. It was about my parents. It was a big dump off! No WONDER they never punished us by taking away a weekend at Grandma's. The light goes on now that I am a parent. I want someplace to dump off the kids EVERY Saturday night! Like Nebraska's Safe Haven Law...only not so permanent.
One of my girlfriends got a dump off this weekend. Off her little kids went, unsuspecting of their status. Thinking they were getting a special treat. When in fact, it was their parents' treat. Woohoo-ing all the way. Giving each other secret high-fives. Craving that next morning of silence. Quietly boogie-ing down their hallways. Knowing those kids were gone, outta there, MIA, for 24 hours.
I'm so jealous. Well, it's Monday now. School. Woohoo!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Clowns and Grocery Stores
Have you ever been in a situation where you think, if I had to explain this to some one right now, they would think I'm nuts? When, in fact, everything leading up to that one moment was logical or at least reasonable right up until they converged in an explosion of weird?
Last night, M came home to find E sword fighting an imaginary clone trooper with a balloon sword. Then, S was under an overturned laundry basket with Clooney saying he was fishing. He was fishing with a balloon animal fish attached to a phallus, I mean balloon fishing rod. Then, Clooney popped half the fish and all pandamonium broke out.
So, under what circumstances does S come to be fishing with a balloon under a laundry basket?
First, we went to the grocery where there was a clown. Then, S was hiding from the sword-wielding E under the basket. Which Clooney wanted in on, naturally.
It's like one of those hallucination dreams you have that when you try to recapture verbally falls apart.
But, in any event. That was yesterday.
The Terminix guy is an hour and a half late. My mom has her tinsel in a tangle over my sister's and my holiday plans. Clooney is chasing his tail. I burned popcorn during family movie night last night and I can't get the stink out. It's going to rain today. I'm a wee bit flustered. Irked, really.
In any event, I am looking forward to the weekend. TiVo is full of things I've been too busy to watch, Northwestern is playing OSU tomorrow, and I have no plans. Phew. Three weeks to Turkey Day. Where has this year gone?
J
Last night, M came home to find E sword fighting an imaginary clone trooper with a balloon sword. Then, S was under an overturned laundry basket with Clooney saying he was fishing. He was fishing with a balloon animal fish attached to a phallus, I mean balloon fishing rod. Then, Clooney popped half the fish and all pandamonium broke out.
So, under what circumstances does S come to be fishing with a balloon under a laundry basket?
First, we went to the grocery where there was a clown. Then, S was hiding from the sword-wielding E under the basket. Which Clooney wanted in on, naturally.
It's like one of those hallucination dreams you have that when you try to recapture verbally falls apart.
But, in any event. That was yesterday.
The Terminix guy is an hour and a half late. My mom has her tinsel in a tangle over my sister's and my holiday plans. Clooney is chasing his tail. I burned popcorn during family movie night last night and I can't get the stink out. It's going to rain today. I'm a wee bit flustered. Irked, really.
In any event, I am looking forward to the weekend. TiVo is full of things I've been too busy to watch, Northwestern is playing OSU tomorrow, and I have no plans. Phew. Three weeks to Turkey Day. Where has this year gone?
J
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
November 5, 2008
Wow.
Regardless of how you voted, how sick you were of the election (very), how very much you want the words "maverick" and "change" taken out of the American lexicon, how jaded, cynical or bored you were of the American political process, I challenge you to admit that you didn't have goose bumps last night during Obama's rally in Chicago.
I had shivers. Really, truly.
Regardless of how you voted, how sick you were of the election (very), how very much you want the words "maverick" and "change" taken out of the American lexicon, how jaded, cynical or bored you were of the American political process, I challenge you to admit that you didn't have goose bumps last night during Obama's rally in Chicago.
I had shivers. Really, truly.
Monday, November 3, 2008
24 Hours
Yes, as it turns out, Clooney's eyes do APPEAR to be different colors. They are not, in real life, different colors. Freaky, though.
So, Halloween is OVER. For another year. All of my decorations (ugh) are packed up and happily back in the attic. The boys now play dress up in their costumes, and I give them another week before they are torn or filthy.
My mom has been a big help this week. M and I spent a very relaxing 24 hours in Biloxi. I ran, sat in the steam room (I so love the steam room), dressed nicely, had drinks, a lovely dinner, and lost only $2 on the nickel slots. This is a tremendous success. M had better luck at the tables, and I think the whole weekend was a welcome break for both of us.
Plus, Northwestern pulled some magic out of their hats and gave us an unexpected win. AND you know, we were without our kids for 24 whole hours. Awesomeness.
I finished my gardening project with mom's help, too. I also cleaned out the fridge, the kitchen cabinets, and did MOUNTAINS of laundry...even going so far as to put it all away.
My kids got to eat out with their grandma, pick out toys at Target, and be spoiled rotten for a week. Nice for them.
Tomorrow, all this election hell will be over. And I hope it IS actually over tomorrow. Those Floridians better figure out how to push the buttons this time. If I have to hear about ONE dangling chad, some one is going to get hurt. Enjoy your last day of political ads. I know you'll miss them come Wednesday. You'll be sitting there, watching Oprah and eating bon bons and wonder, where is my daily dose of lying and hatred? I know. Try to think happy thoughts. About how, in some amount of time, depending on what political officer is speaking, you will get to hear how THEY, in turn failed you, and some one else is going to do the job "differently."
Buck up. In just 4 years, we get to do this again! @#(*&%(T^
So, Halloween is OVER. For another year. All of my decorations (ugh) are packed up and happily back in the attic. The boys now play dress up in their costumes, and I give them another week before they are torn or filthy.
My mom has been a big help this week. M and I spent a very relaxing 24 hours in Biloxi. I ran, sat in the steam room (I so love the steam room), dressed nicely, had drinks, a lovely dinner, and lost only $2 on the nickel slots. This is a tremendous success. M had better luck at the tables, and I think the whole weekend was a welcome break for both of us.
Plus, Northwestern pulled some magic out of their hats and gave us an unexpected win. AND you know, we were without our kids for 24 whole hours. Awesomeness.
I finished my gardening project with mom's help, too. I also cleaned out the fridge, the kitchen cabinets, and did MOUNTAINS of laundry...even going so far as to put it all away.
My kids got to eat out with their grandma, pick out toys at Target, and be spoiled rotten for a week. Nice for them.
Tomorrow, all this election hell will be over. And I hope it IS actually over tomorrow. Those Floridians better figure out how to push the buttons this time. If I have to hear about ONE dangling chad, some one is going to get hurt. Enjoy your last day of political ads. I know you'll miss them come Wednesday. You'll be sitting there, watching Oprah and eating bon bons and wonder, where is my daily dose of lying and hatred? I know. Try to think happy thoughts. About how, in some amount of time, depending on what political officer is speaking, you will get to hear how THEY, in turn failed you, and some one else is going to do the job "differently."
Buck up. In just 4 years, we get to do this again! @#(*&%(T^
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