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Because Julie asked, some pics of the kids in their Halloween garb:
DynaGirl as The Cat in the Hat:
Goose as The Cheerleader:
BigHugs as The Black Cat:
Saturday ended up being a pretty busy day, so the girls didn’t get out trick-or-treating until after 7:30 pm. I was a little worried we wouldn’t be able to employ our annual Halloween candy strategy. You don’t have a Halloween candy strategy? I’m not talking about mapping out a trick-or-treating route or going to the houses with the best loot or anything like that. Let me explain.
My first few Halloweens I was a total sucker, buying and passing out the good stuff only to have my children come home with gummy thumbs and chocolate eyeballs and Arby’s restaurant mints that had been scrounged from the bottom of someone’s purse or pocket or something. (The wrappers wrinkled and covered in lint and crumbs are kind of a tip off, cheapo restaurant mint passer-outers. If you think no one has noticed, you’re wrong.) Then I started buying the cheapo stuff like smarties and the bubble gum that’s rock hard by Veteran’s Day. The problem with that is if you overestimate the number of trick-or-treaters you’re likely to have, then you’re still stuck with the crap.
A few years ago, I finally figured out that if you send your kids out early enough, they can come home, sort the undesirable and inedible from the good stuff, and then you can turn around and pass it out to unsuspecting trick-or-treaters and keep the good candy for yourself. I know, it’s diabolical. But pretty much in keeping with the whole spirit of the holiday, no?
They ended up getting home in plenty of time, but the parade of trick-or-treaters had really tapered off by about 8:30 pm, and we still had plenty of candy of the undesirable, inedible variety left in our bowl. Chuck tried to turn the porch light off at 9 pm, but I told him to leave it on just in case we got a few stragglers. I instructed Mr. T and DynaGirl to make sure the bowl was clear of any stuff worth keeping, and to just dump the entire contents of the bowl into the outstretched bag of anyone who dared trick-or-treat past 9 pm.
At 9:15 the doorbell rang and DynaGirl dumped as instructed. We turned off the porch light and locked the door. Our house is now completely devoid of all the abominations that people try to pass off as Halloween candy. Complete mission success this year, my friends, complete mission success.
Yes, occasionally I do feel some pangs of guilt for re-treating something that I deem unworthy of my own family’s consumption. But some of these kids come from the very homes that are passing out this stuff, and while it would be helpful to have every child carry a sample of the offerings from their own homes so that one might be better able to judge what candy of which they are worthy, that’s not really realistic, is it?
So yes, innocents may fall victim to the particular brand of Halloween candy justice we dispense here at Casa de Bythelbs (I might be giving your child a box of Dots at the very moment you are generously dropping a king-snize Snickers into my child’s sack), but I can live with the collateral damage if it means I never again have to look at another Now and later or Laffy taffy or flavored Tootsie roll collecting dust in my pantry.
Hey, it would be wasteful to just throw it away.
Plus, some people like that kind of stuff.
I am not a monster!
And no referencing that last post!
You know those moments in life where you can either laugh or cry? I have never laughed so hard in my entire life.
While going through DynaGirl’s homework folder, I found this storyboard:
Me: What was this for?
DynaGirl: Oh, that’s just a rough rough draft of something.
Yeah, rough.
…
Rough draft?
So yesterday I was frantically trying to finish up costumes for Goose and DynaGirl (because last night was our church’s annual trunk or treat), which necessitated a last minute run to the fabric store. I had a list, but I still wandered back and forth across the store because I would remember that I needed something over there even though I was just over there with my list and the something staring me right in the face.
Then I went to pay and I slid my credit card through the little credit card thingy upsidedown. I had the magnetic strip between my fingers! Luckily, I noticed before the cashier did, but just in case, I had to acknowledge out loud that I had done something stupid. I didn’t want her to have seen me do it and then see me try to hurry and cover up that I had done it. Better to just come out and say I’m a idiot. Never mind the possibility that the whole thing would otherwise have gone unnoticed.
And then I almost made it out the door without my bag of somethings that I had wandered back and forth across the store collecting and tried to pay for with the wrong end of my credit card. I had to go back to the register and get my bag. I hate it when you have to go back. Although, going back is slightly less humiliating than someone chasing you out the door frantically yelling, “Mam! Mam! Your bag!” while everyone in the tri-parking lot area turns and stares. Not that I would know from personal experience or anything, but I can imagine.
Driving down the street on my way home, I suddenly realized I had missed my turn. Four blocks ago. I was in my own town, like five minutes from my house.
Somehow I managed to get home, finish the costumes and make it through the day without harming myself or others. (Well, there was that whole temporarily losing track of BigHugs while walking Goose and DynaGirl home from school and finding her 30 seconds later walking 15 feet behind us sobbing and completely freaked out. But that doesn’t really count, does it?)
You have days like this, right?
You know, I’ve noticed lately that come 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon if I try to sit down to do something like read or watch TV, I can’t keep my 
eyes open. I’m literally nodding off with the droopy lids, startling head bob and all. (I think one time I even noticed a little moisture at the corner of my mouth. But that does not leave this blog. Do you hear me? I know where most of you live.) And I can’t help but think if you’re only as old as you feel then I’m just a shuffle away from the front of a Smucker’s jar.
And what is up with that recurring whisker under my chin? Seriously!
Miracles still happen—This year I somehow managed to completely unpack my suitcase the night we got home from vacation. The very same night. I seriously don’t know what possessed me. I also decided this year that my kids were going to unpack their own bags. It took them a day or two longer. I think for Goose it was more like four days, and I was at one point tempted to just do it myself, but then I thought “Am I my children’s luggage’s keeper?” Besides, it was a good lesson in personal responsibility for her. Or something.
Dandruff Queen—Monday morning I noticed my vacation fun in the sun was paying off in a spectacular display of scalp moltage. Normally, I wash my hair every other day and Monday was supposed to be my morning off, but I thought I couldn’t possibly just walk around all day as The Human Snow Globe so I’d better take a break from my regularly scheduled hair care routine and attend to that. But then I thought heck, I wasn’t even planning to leave the house so what was the point? Really. That pretty much sums up my entire attitude toward summer.
Vacation: the gift that just keeps giving—I also came home with a match set of mosquito bites, one on each shin. My irritation has been slightly offset by the gratitude of also having come home with a pair of heels even an industrial grade Ped Egg would balk at. Seriously, there is no more effective way of scratching your lower shins in the middle of the night than with the cracked and calloused caverns of your lowest extremities. Silver lining, people. Silver lining.
Some things are just worth making yourself pee for—As we were driving through Idaho on our way home, just outside of Boise, Chuck asked if anyone needed to use the restroom. All the kids assured us that they were not presently in need of a rest stop until Chuck said, “It’s the cinnamony bathroom” and then suddenly everyone needed to go. Rest assured, Cinnamony Rest Stop, as long as there is a Bythelbs alive and traveling in the great potato state, you will never be taken for granted.
This too shall pass—The family we stay with in Idaho and Utah have beautiful homes. Beautifully decorated and maintained homes, and I always come home with a renewed enthusiasm and determination, all fired up about finishing up the painting job I started last year (there’s ALWAYS a painting job I started last year) and sprucing up the joint a bit. This lasts for about a week (and then I just go back to being bitter and resenting them for their superior living conditions). OK, wait, we got home Friday night, it’s now Wednesday morning, so I guess it’s more like five days. Actually, I think technically I stopped caring sometime mid-afternoon yesterday, so we’ll say four-four and a half. Still, I have been promised new carpeting when the painting is done. And it would be kind of nice to get that painter’s tape out of the stairwell and hall (the blue doesn’t really go with my decor). Who am I kidding? (That would be in reference to both the idea that I might actually finish the painting and that I actually have a decor.)
The family that mocks together, stays together—
In the car somewhere in Utah.
Me: When we were in Hawaii we noticed that the city we were staying in had a big letter L on the side of their mountain just like the G on the side of the mountain where your uncle lives.
Goose: Cool. What did the L stand for?
Mr. T: Lollipop? Lemon? Linoleum?
DynaGirl: Lumps in mine oatmeal!
Mr. T: Lumps in mine oatmeal?
General snickering.
DynaGirl: What?
Me, with accompanying hand gesture: Heil oatmeal!
Mr. T, with a Britishy accent: Theh ah lllomps in mine oat-mail!
Goose: La-la-la mine linoleum!
Mr. T, with another Britishy accent (that I’m now much too lazy to try to phonetically convey): I traversed through the woods back to my dwelling and found that there were lumps in mine oatmeal.
DynaGirl: Whatever!
Well, I’m off. To do what, I don’t exactly know. Like I said, mine suitcases are already unpacked, and I’m not really feeling up to finishing mine painting today. Perhaps I’ll wash mine hair. Also, mine mosquito bites seem to be past the itching stage, so I guess I could always egg mine peds. What are yourn big plans for the week?
Dear Mr. T’s Social Studies Teacher,
I would just like to thank you for giving Mr. T the opportunity of repeating a homework assignment you somehow misplaced. It was totally cool of you to give him a chance to make up that assignment he had already completed. Unfortunately, Mr. T was so busy working on the major project you assigned for the last week of school, that he didn’t have time to do that other assignment. AGAIN. So I did it. So there. Pppbbbtt.
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Cheater Pants Mom)
Dear Yellow YMCA Shirt Lady,
No offense, but what kind of inconsiderate idiot chooses the elementary school drop-off lane to put sunscreen on her child and then spends the next several moments rubbing the excess sunscreen all over herself before getting back in her car and finally, mercifully driving away? It’s the fracking drop-off lane! Watch the hail!*
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Raging Pants Mom)
Dear BigHugs,
OK, I get that you find the image of me in my underwear disgustin’. You really don’t need to say so every time you see me in such a state of undress. I get it. Disgustin’. Totawee disgustin’. Message received. And noted.
Sincerely,
Mom (aka Big Fat Under Pants Mom)
Dear Gerard Butler,
I had the pleasure of watching your film P.S. I Love You last night, in which you were magically delicious. Thank you. For being delicious. Magically. So magically.
Sincerely,
Bythelbs (aka Not-so-very-Big-or-Fat Smokin’ Hot Mom…with pants. Hot pants. Well, not literally hot pants. Never mind.)
*Told you, Tawnya.
So awhile back I posted one of those lame “How well do you know me?” Facebook quizzes. One of the questions was:
My biggest fears in order from greatest to least are ____________.
a) spiders, public restrooms, dirty dishes.
b) public restrooms, dirty dishes, spiders.
c) dirty dishes, spiders, public restrooms.
Most people got this question wrong.
This morning as I was folding laundry on the couch, I picked up a towel—a big, white, fluffy, beautiful towel—only to find that a spider—a big, black, creepy, ugly spider—was lurking within its folds. I dropped the towel like it had a spider on it (because it did!) and screamed. But I dropped the towel on the couch. No way was I going to live with the idea that a big, black, creepy, ugly eight-legged beastie was inhabiting the inner recesses of my loveseat, so I picked up a corner of the towel and flung it on the ground away from the couch. I thought maybe it would crawl out of the towel so I (actually, I was hoping I could talk Mr. T into doing the dirty work) could properly attack it with the business end of my husband’s hiking boot, but it didn’t. The towel was silent. Eerily silent. And still. Eerily still.
The towel and spider were now in the middle of my floor, trapping Mr. T in the kitchen and preventing me from carrying out the rest of my morning motherly duties of lunch making and laundry folding and floor sweeping and all that other crap. I bravely walked up to the towel and lifted up one corner.
Me, to Mr. T: Is it there?
Mr. T: I don’t see it.
Me, trying to flip around another corner of the towel: Do you see it?
Mr. T: No.
Me: Did you see it when I flung it onto the floor. It’s in the towel, right? It’s not still on the couch, right?! Please don’t let it still be on the couch!
I thought about just smashing the crap out of that towel in such a way as to ensure that nothing could have survived, but it was one of my good white bath towels. I haven’t had them very long and they were kind of pricey. I went into the kitchen and started digging around in the drawers.
Mr. T: What are you looking for?
Me: The tongs. The good ones.
I couldn’t find the good ones. I could only find the flimsy ones that were a good 1 1/2 inches shorter than the good ones, but I was desperate. I went over to the vicinity of the towel and leaned over as far as my arm would stretch and tried to pick up the towel with the tongs. I couldn’t. They weren’t strong enough to hold 30×56″ of fine loop Egyptian cotton goodness. Darn those flimsy tongs!
Mr. T, searching the kitchen in earnest: Where are those good tongs?!
He couldn’t find them, but worked up the courage to spread the towel out the rest of the way. There was nothing there. There was nothing there! Do you know what’s worse than having a spider on one of your best bath towels? Having a spider on one of your best bath towels and then not having a spider on one of your best bath towels with no earthly idea of what happened to the damn thing in between those two states of being! It could be anywhere!
Mr. T: You probably flung it off the towel when you threw it off the couch.
Me: But where? Where would I have flung it to?
We looked around and then Mr. T spotted it on the dining room wall, a good twelve feet away.
Mr. T: That thing’s huge!
I searched for a weapon. Mr. T brought out the big, rubber mallet from the kitchen.
Me: We can’t use that, we’ll put a hole in the wall.
The spider dropped to the floor, so I knew I had to act fast—any further delay and I’d risk losing him in my house. In my house! I finally settled on some rolled up newspapers, covered my eyes with one hand and brought down my other with the full force of all my fear and fury. I got him.
Me, handing Mr. T a stack of napkins: Could you get rid of him please?
Mr. T: With napkins?!
Me: Well, what do you want to use?
Mr. T: Something stiffer?
We debated for a few minutes until finally I took matters into my own hands—well, not my hands (shudder, shudder, shudder!)—and scooped it up with the cardboard wrapping from the last of the pineapple snack cups. I carried it across the dining room and tossed it out the back slider door, all the while hoping that spiders didn’t play possum and chanting, “Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up.”
Needless to say, it was a most traumatic and distressing way to start my day. It’s like when you narrowly miss getting in a car accident and your heart is palpitating for several minutes following the near death experience.
So here is my rationale behind the biggest fears:
I’d rather do dishes than take care of any kind of business in a public restroom. And I’d certainly much rather take care of all kinds of business in a public restroom than have to deal with a spider.
I’m not sure how long it will be before I can use that towel again, let alone hang it up in my bathroom. Or put it in the linen closet. Or fold it. Or pick it up off the floor.
So, I’m sitting here in my underwear (I was just starting to get dressed after taking a shower when I thought of something I wanted to tell Chuck, so I decided to send him a quick e-mail before I forgot and then I got distracted by Facebook IM because one of my favorite people was on), and BigHugs walks in and says, “Ew, Mom, that’s gross. You need to get some clothes on.” And I thought, “She’s right, I really do need to get some clothes on”, but I was still chatting. And then BigHugs asks if she can have some chocolate teddy grahams and I thought, “Sure, why not? It’s 9:45 am and you haven’t had breakfast yet—go for it.” So I told her yes and she went downstairs to get the teddy grahams and a bowl for me to pour them into. Then, of course, the teddy grahams were just sitting here on the desk, so I help myself because, hey, I haven’t had breakfast yet either, and before I know it, they are all gone and I’m shaking out the bottom of the box into my hand so I can finish off every last dismembered teddy graham appendage. And now my underwear is littered with the carnage of my teddy graham massacre.
Hey, I’m gonna eat you two! Another one bites the dust-ah!
Happy Thursday to ye!
Ambiguphobia—the fear of being misunderstood. (No, I did not just make that up. It’s a real thing, people.) I’ve always known I have it, but I don’t think I realized the depth of my ambiguphobia until yesterday when I discovered how many people had no idea what I meant by the title of my blog and my online handle. It was…distressing. I think particularly because I had spent so much time congratulating myself on the clever conception of the name when I started this whole blogging endeavor.
“Look, lbs like pounds and also like me! I’m lbs! And when I write something it’s like By lbs! And when you buy things, you can buy them by the lb! (Only there’s an “s” in my initials, so it would be by the lbs, which is even better because that makes the play on words even more obvious!) Buy things like nuts! I’m nutty! Nutty goodness! By the lbs: nutty goodness in bulk or by the pound! That’s it! That’s the name! The perfect name!”
I’m not sure why it never occurred to me before that this line of reasoning wouldn’t be completely obvious to everyone else, especially given how you all wouldn’t automatically know what my initials even are. I must have assumed that the bythelbs would be sufficiently odd (I mean, who says “Oh yeah, I buy these by the pounds.” You don’t buy by the pounds, you buy by the pound.) that one would naturally deduce that “lbs” must also represent something else like, say, initials. “Oh, this blog must be written by someone with the initials lbs. By the lbs. By the pounds. Snort. I get it. Clever girl.” I am an idiot.
Now that I think about it, it’s really very unlike me to take this kind of thing for granted. I am like the queen of over-explaining myself. Well, at least in my mind I am. I say something to a friend or type something in a comment on a blog, maybe something I think is witty or clever and then I sit there and wonder if anyone will get it, but when you have to explain a joke it’s not really funny, right? Particularly with the blogs (because you can’t add all those subtle nuances of voice inflection and delivery that are sometimes vital clues to how a joke is best interpreted or received), I’ll sit there staring at a comment I’ve just written, debating back and forth whether I’ve been sufficiently clear. Am I clear? AM I CLEAR?! Dare I submit? DARE I?! Sometimes in my lack of confidence I just erase my comment and click away. Better to say nothing than to have people mistakenly think I’m a dork.
And it’s not just about the joke. I worry about offending people with a misunderstanding. When I was walking my girls home from school yesterday, Goose and BigHugs had run out a few yards ahead of me. They are pretty good about stopping at each corner and waiting for me before crossing the street, but they were approaching this one crosswalk at kind of a jog and I noticed a big truck getting ready to turn through it so I yelled, “Stop!” And when the girls didn’t immediately stop, I yelled, “Stop! Stop! STOP!!!” And then the truck driver looked at me as he drove past with us all standing on the corner, and I was suddenly worried that perhaps he thought I was yelling at him to stop, so I immediately said in a voice I hoped was loud enough to carry the 20 feet down the street he had already gone, “GIRLS, YOU NEED TO MAKE SURE TO STOP AT THE CORNER AND WAIT FOR ME. THAT NICE TRUCK WAS TRYING TO TURN.” But in retrospect, he was most likely giving me the evil eye for letting my young children run wild on the sidewalks.
I’m not one for acknowledging strangers I pass on the street. As I’m walking, I usually just keep my head down and pretend I’m preoccupied with something. If I’m with BigHugs I might start talking to her just as I’m approaching someone so that they can think I am too engrossed in my conversation with my three year old to notice them rather than think that I’m unfriendly. I would be happy to be friendly. A “hi” or a head nod or even just a smile is not beyond my capacity for interaction with my fellow human beings, but I’m afraid of the possibility of that being misinterpreted as well. When I walk to pick up my girls after school, there’s this nice young Asian man sitting at the bus stop on the way. One day I just happened to look in his direction just as he was looking up from his book and I felt trapped, so I smiled. He smiled back. A perfectly lovely random encounter. Then the next time I walked to school, I made a special point of smiling at him because I figured we had already established this smiling relationship and it would just be rude to go back to ignoring him. He smiled again. Then the next time I did this kind of combo smile/quick head nod/staccatoed “Hi” thing and he just kind of looked away. No smile. Did he see me? Did I breech some kind of code of social etiquette progression by moving up to the “Hi” so soon after the smile relationship was established? Was he beginning to worry that this wacko old lady mom was trying to hit on him? Did he take my head nod/Hi as a mockery of his Asian culture? It was a nod, not a bow! A “hi”, not a “hai!” (No pick! No pick!!) Then last Monday I was driving the kids to piano in the opposite direction that I walk to the school, and I saw my young Asian man friend sitting at a different bus stop on the opposite side of the street. Did he change bus routes just to avoid me? Did I make him that uncomfortable? But then yesterday he was standing up at his regular bus stop, and as I approached him he shot me a big, beaming grin. So either I had nothing to worry about to begin with, my paranoid delusions getting the best of me yet again, or my young Asian man friend has thought about it, weighed the pros and cons, and decided to accept my unintentional advances. I suppose either way, I’m golden.
And now I don’t remember where I thought I was going with this whole thing, but I’m afraid any further attempts to explain myself will only serve to muddy the waters into muddied waters oblvion, so I’ll just say, “Hi. My name is Bythelbs. I mean LBS. I mean my actual initials are L.B.S. But I go by Bythelbs. Like by the pounds, as in by the pound, and also by the lbs, as in my actual initials. And I’m an ambiguphobic.”
Are you?
Classic crazy.
- Our new mattress was delivered on Friday, and we are loving it. I was, however, slightly disturbed by some of the language in the warranty: “Any product found to be in an Unreasonably Unsanitary Condition, meaning the product is so pervasively soiled that 1) an inspector is unable to conduct an appropriate inspection of the condition of the product without being exposed to potentially dangerous bodily fluids, blood borne pathogens, or other substances that could cause significant injury or 2) otherwise suggest that the product has been subjected to misuse well beyond ordinary wear and tear, IS NOT COVERED under this warranty.” You know how sometimes you wish you could go back in time and redo certain moments in your life? In the event that I ever have such an opportunity, I’m totally going to let the day I chose not to pursue a career in mattress inspection stand. Life choice: validated.
- Preparations for the arrival of our new mattress included cleaning out from under our bed. We use that space for storage, and I never don’t often pull everything all out to vacuum or dust. I shuddered to think about what might be lurking under there. Spider carcasses would mean the possibility of spider rehabitation or worse yet, spider ghosts. (Yeah, that’s right, spider ghosts. How many times have you felt like something was crawling up your arm only to look down and see nothing there?) So Chuck pulled out all the crud from under the bed, and I went in armed with the business end of a vacuum hose, but there was narry a spider in sight, living or shriveled up with the legs all curled into themselves. I had not cleaned under there in heaven knows how long, there were no spider carcasses, ergo spiders must not live under beds. And if they’re not living in my bedroom, they’re not dying in my bedroom. Father Francis, put away your holy water. Arachnid exorcism: unnecessary. (This time.)
- I was walking home from school with my girls and my neighbor and her girls yesterday, and I overheard her talking about the new Zac Efron movie, 17 Again. She was talking about how much she liked the movie and how cute Zac Efron is. Her 10 year-old feels the Zac love, but her 7 year-old says she doesn’t get it. I have to say, I’m with the 7 year-old. I’m finding more and more lately that I’m just not really attracted to the teen-throbs. I’m beginning to think I might have a serious lack of cougar instincts. Mrs. Robinson: fail.
- So Chuck bought a gym membership a couple of months ago. I thought he’d been going 3-4 times a week, but last week I discovered he’s going six days a week.
Me: You’ve been going to the gym every day?
Chuck: Yeah, well, I do three days of weights and three days of
cardio.
Me: Whatever.
Chuck: Is that OK?
Me: As long as you don’t expect me to start going to the gym.
Chuck: Why would I expect you to go to the gym?
Me: All right then.
Chuck: I’m just trying to get ready for Hawaii.
Me: But you’re going to look better than me.
Chuck: What are you talking about?
Me: You have no gushy spots now, and I’m going to be all gushy.
I am actually really good at losing 5 pounds. I am even better at
gaining 5 pounds. No matter what I do, my body seems to have
this idea that I have to be a certain weight, like my life depends
on it. It’s like Speed—if I go below ***, I’ll explode! Mmm: Keanu.
I just spent the last 30 minutes watching Keanu Reeves tributes, trying to select one for you. It’s impossible—like the Sophie’s choice of youtube videos—so here’s one. Enjoy.
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