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So the other day BigHugs, who hasn’t been feeling very well this week, comes up to me and says, “I have a hot.” Goose said, “I think she means she has a cold.” I think she was feeling hot and was just trying to avoid saying the other word, considering what happened the last time she tried to have a serious conversation about her health issues with her mother.
For some reason, this joke just never gets old for me. Last month one of Mr. T’s birthday gifts included this:
Last week, DynaGirl got Singstar for her birthday. It’s a karaoke game for Playstation. They have several versions, including 80’s, 90’s, rock, pop and amped. I picked up amped. How could I not? It has “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on it. DynaGirl and Mr. T tried it out in duet mode, and did a pretty good job. But, of course, the whole time I kept thinking, “I need more cowbell.” I decided right then and there, this family must acquire a cowbell.
I first checked with my local music store, but all of their cowbells are designed to be mounted with a drum set. So I checked online. My first stop was Amazon. They seem to have everything, plus I like reading the customer reviews. I find them very helpful. Well, there are plenty of useless reviews like “this sucked” or “I don’t actually have this, but it looks awesome”, but occasionally you find someone who obviously knows what they’re talking about and offers some helpful insights.
Like this guy in his review of the Basic Beat Black Cowbell. We’ll call him J from Texas.
Looking back on my long musical career, I have played many instruments, but I keep coming back to my first love… the cowbell. Oh sure, I’ve tried them all - from triangle to wood block but I have never felt so in tune with any other instrument than the Cowbell.
I have many different cowbells in my collection. Most of these are for a particular mood only. If I am feeling somewhat polka, I always reach for my signature “Shmenge Brothers #6″ with the zebrawood handle… for rock it is my “Gussmann Blue-Steel Screamer”… jazz see’s me grab my “Trini Lopez Limmited Addition Melody Master” knock-off.
But here is the finest single cowbell I have ever played. It has such a full & pleasant sound it seems to go with any type of music I play. My group was shocked when I showed up to our last gig and I only brought this little beauty with me. They protested at first and even threatened not to do the show, but their fears quickly disovled when I brought the house down with our first song of the night.
I can only close with this… Buy this Cowbell and see if I am not right! This thing is a Godsend for any serious cowbeller out there. You will reach new areas of playing that you did not even think were possible.
And as if J’s glowing review wasn’t enough to sell me on it, here’s W from Seoul, Korea.
Fellas, I’m tellin’ ya…you’re gonna want more cowbell. I got a fever and the only prescription is more Basic Beat Black Cowbell!
I think I’ve found my cowbell, people.
This is my child who refuses to sleep in her own bed.
It would be wrong to like tuck her into the table every night, right?
I had this whole special “Wacky Search Terms Wednesday with a Twist” thing planned, but alas, all plans are thwarted! My search terms list is missing! Lost! Lost, I tell you! Lost!!! I keep a little piece of paper by my computer to write down all of my very best ones. Yes, my stats tracker keeps records of them, but only the top whatever number for any given period of time, and it sorts them by popularity, and of course the very best ones are not oft repeated, so while I managed to find a few, some of my very most favoritest freakiest ones are just gone, and I’ve tried to reconstruct them from memory, but I’m all befuddled by the loss of my actual list and can’t think clearly plus I’m all about truth and accuracy here at By the lbs and cannot in good conscience just throw something together that may or may not have been the actual wording—there is no “gist of it” with Wacky Search Terms Wednesday!!! No gist! No fabricating! Just exactness! And truth! Sigh. Sniffle. Sniffle.
Don’t worry, I’ve already stopped looking for the list. It’s hopeless. After an exhaustive search of the computer desk and floor and trash and paper shredder and under the computer and the keyboard and the printer and on the refrigerator (because sometimes I stick little important papery things on the little clothespinny magnets on there), I have concluded that it’s just gone. Gone daddy gone.
Really, I’m OK. I’m already coming to grips with it. I’ve even started a new list to convince myself I’ve moved on. I’m fine. Totally, utterly and completely OK. Peachy. Right as rain. No residual anxiety or anger or grief. Just me here. Typing. With a smile. See, I’m smiling. Totally smiling. And it’s not even a freakish fake smile with dead, empty eyes. Just happiness and sunshine and rainbows and pink flying unicorns…with little pieces of paper… with my wacky search terms…impaled. on. their. horns.
Oh woe! Woe is me!
So this morning I get out my trusty dusty spiral notebook to write a quick note to DynaGirl’s teacher, giving her an update on DG’s arm and letting her know we forgot to get DG’s homework when we left early yesterday for the appointment with the doctor. I’m just getting started when DynaGirl says, “You’re writing another note?”
Me: What do you mean?
DG: Didn’t you just write her a note last week?
Me: Yeah, but that was to let her know when I could come in this week to work in the classroom.
DG: It just seems like you write a lot of notes.
Me: Is that bad?
DG: No, as long as people don’t start thinking you’re weird with all the notes. Or that I’m weird.
Me: Well, I was just letting her know that you need to sit out of PE for two more weeks and that we forgot to get your homework yesterday. Is that OK?
DG: Yeah, that’s OK. I’m just sayin’.
She’s right, you know. I write a lot of notes. I like to communicate with my children’s teachers. Is that so wrong? But I know how she feels. My mom was also a note writer. But not just your run-of-the-mill-please-excuse-bythelbs-from-class-today kind of notes. She wrote novellas. Whether it be an early dismissal from class or an excuse for missing a day or a question about whatever, she was always very thorough. One time in 5th grade, I did not complete a report on time. I think we had a lot of family stuff going on. My brother was sick and going back and forth to the hospital for treatments and my mom just didn’t have time to help me with the report. She wrote a three page letter, front and back, to Mr. Caperton, explaining why I did not have the assignment and asking if I could have more time to complete it. He came up to me during class. In one hand he held the letter, the other he placed on my shoulder. He looked at me, with what I thought was a glistening of a tear in the corner of his eye, and said in a tender voice, “Of course you can have more time. Of course. You turn it in whenever you’re ready.” I remember feeling embarrassed, wondering what my mom had written in that note. Whatever it was, it worked. Like a charm.
Last week, Mr. T had an assignment due that he didn’t get in on time. Apparently, it was supposed to be the final draft of a paper they had written the previous week and then given to another student in the class for a peer review. The kid Mr. T had given his paper to, didn’t give it back to him until the morning of the day it was due. When Mr. T explained this to his teacher, his teacher gave him an extra day to complete the final draft. Well, that night when Mr. T went to type up his final draft, he couldn’t find the rough draft. He had accidentally turned it in with some other papers. I asked him to explain this to his teacher the next day and see if he could have one more day to finish the assignment. The next two days he had a sub, and I was worried that now that we were going into the weekend, his teacher would not be so understanding about an assignment being five days late. So I sent him an e-mail explaining the situation. I even threw in that I understood that now that the assignment would be so late, he might incur point deductions but I still felt strongly that Mr. T needed to finish the assignment. I heard back from the teacher who said he would allow Mr. T to finish the assignment and that he would not be penalized. He even e-mailed me again after class, letting me know that Mr. T now had the rough draft in his hands.
At first I was a little hesitant to get involved. I was worried about coming off as one of those hovering mothers that has to have her hand in everything her child is doing or feels the need to hold her child’s hand through everything he does. I even let Mr. T read the e-mail before I sent it to make sure I didn’t say anything that he would find embarrassing. Mr. T was OK with it, and the teacher even thanked me for letting him know the situation. I think he was just grateful to have a parent express some kind of interest in her child’s education.
So maybe my kids will spend the next 40 years mocking me for my penchant for note-writing, but I hope, at least someday, they’ll come to the same understanding that I eventually did with my own mother. She cared.
An award! From Cheryl! Behold the oddness!
This blog invests and believes, the proximity. [meaning, that blogging makes us 'close' -being close through proxy]. They all are charmed with the blogs, where in the majority of its aims are to show the marvels and to do friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to 8 bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.
I know, this is so last week, but with DynaGirl’s birthday and the homecoming of the Chuck, I had already posted two days ahead, and when you already have posts just sitting there in the queue all ready to post, you don’t just jump in there and post again. Timeliness be darned!
I realized just this morning that this is a chain award, and I’m not usually a chain person, but I am always loathe to cut the bows of proximity to our friendship so I am extending this award to:
Susan M, kamillivanilli, Boquinha, Patience and Jody.
Yes, I know that’s only five, but with the rounds this award has been making, I’m running out of bows of friendship. I only know so many people, people. Not to say that these five fine bloggers are awardees by default or that I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel in any way. There is no barrel bottom here! No sir!
And, my friends, please do not in any way feel obligated to continue the chain. I promise not to come to your blog and check to see if you have posted about it or anything. Well, I suppose since I read all of your blogs I will know if you have posted about it, but I will be in no way offended should you choose to revel in the glory of this award privately.
Ooh, but you could do this 7 random things about me meme that goes with it!
1. I think I may have a minor apple allergy. Whenever I eat more than a couple of apple slices my face gets all hot and flush.
2. When I take dinner to someone (like when they have a new baby or an illness) I always make the same thing. Creamy chicken enchiladas. Always. And if I really like them, they get guacamole, too.
3. The word “supple” really creeps me out. There are many other words that would also go in this category, but that’s the first one to come to mind.
4. I am kind of afraid of raisins. *shudder*
5. As a youth, I was known to do a killer Fat Albert impression. My younger sister could do a similar voice, but it wasn’t quite the same so we called it her Skinny Albert. Or maybe it was just because she was skinny.
6. I haven’t been to a doctor for anything besides birthing babies in almost 14 years.
7. I’ve composed dozens of Oscar acceptance speeches in my head. They are always witty and funny, touching and relevant, and when I’m done delivering them, Meryl Streep gives me a standing O and I get a meaningful head nod from Jack Nicholson.
What earworms do you have wiggling around in your head? What’s been the most annoying one you’ve ever had?
Speaking of music, there’s this song that I’ve really liked lately that always just kind of makes me happy when I hear it. I’ve never really paid attention to the lyrics, so I googled them and was surprised to find that they’re really kind of sad. The song still somehow sounds hopeful and even somewhat cheery to me.
Into the Ocean by Blue October—What do you think?
I’m just a normal boy
That sank when I fell overboard
My ship would leave the country
But I’d rather swim ashore
Without a life vest I’d be stuck again
Wish I was much more masculine
Maybe then I could learn to swim
Like ‘fourteen miles away’
Now floating up and down
I spin, colliding into sound
Like whales beneath me diving down
I’m sinking to the bottom of my
Everything that freaks me out
The lighthouse beam has just run out
I’m cold as cold as cold can be
be
I want to swim away but don’t know how
Sometimes it feels just like I’m falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion… yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now…come down
Let the rain come down
Where is the coastguard
I keep looking each direction
For a spotlight, give me something
I need something for protection
Maybe flotsam junk will do just fine
the jetsam sunk, I’m left behind
I’m treading for my life believe me
(How can I keep up this breathing)
Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I’m reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending
I thought of just your face
Relaxed, and floated into space
I want to swim away but don’t know how
Sometimes it feels just like I’m falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion… yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now…come down
Let the rain come down
Now waking to the sun
I calculate what I had done
Like jumping from the bow (yeah)
Just to prove I knew how (yeah)
It’s midnight’s late reminder of
The loss of her, the one I love
My will to quickly end it all
Set front row in my need to fall
Into the ocean, end it all
Into the ocean, end it all
Into the ocean, end it all
into the ocean…end it all
[Zayra]
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye)
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye)
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye)
I want to swim away but don’t know how
Sometimes it feels just like I’m falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion (yeah)
Let the rain of what I feel right now…come down
Let the rain come down
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye)
In to space
I thought of just your face
Are there any sad songs that cheer you up? Hmm…I think I’m hearing a whispering of Sir EJ somewhere in the back of my mind.
DynaGirl is nine today. And with every birthday of every child of every year, I find myself wondering where the time has gone. The seems like just yesterdays are always on the tip of my tongue, yet when I think about all that has happened, all that we’ve been through, and how much she has grown, I realize that of course this much time has passed.
At 6 pounds 14 ounces, she was my smallest little bundle of joy. Over the past almost decade, she has become my not so little bundle of joy and also my bundle of contradictions. She is my silliest and most serious. My toughest and most fragile. My first to forgive and last to forget. My most popular and most lonely. My most affectionate and most distant. My happiest and most melancholy.
She sometimes laments being the outsider among her sisters—the only brown-eyed brunette in a family of blue-eyed blonde women. I tell her I love that she is different because she brings me the best of both worlds. She sometimes wishes she wasn’t the oldest sister with all of the extra responsibilities and expectations. I tell her that being my first daughter will always make her extra special. She sometimes complains that I am quicker to praise her younger, more emotionally needy sister. I tell her that nothing and no one brings me greater joy than her. And it’s true. I hope deep down (or not so very deep down) she believes it or that at least someday she will.
Happy birthday, DynaGirl! I love you!
DynaGirl’s birthday is tomorrow. I had asked her to make me a wish list, so I would have some idea of what she might like. Here’s what she gave me.
DynaGirl’s Birthay (her typo, not mine) List!
Webkinz 1. Alligator 2. Sheep 3. Deer 4. Dolphin 5. Frog 6. Chipmunk 7. Simeese cat 8. Chicken 9. Rottwiler 10. Google 12. Manity 11. Ali Cat 13. Girl lion 14. Carmel lion 15. Leopard (Please, don’t get me all the webkinz on my list)
Mini white Board
original Checkers
live Puppy
Half couch
$50.07¢
50 dollars
Sewing Machine (Sewing Lessonds)
Picture frames
pens
two Mirrors
Flamingo Posters
Rock BAND (then there’s a little picture of a microphone, drums, and two guitars)
More sticy Tac
Scarfs
Sticky notes
very BIG Boxes
I loved that she felt the need to request that I not buy every Webkinz on her list. As if. I did buy her one of those—the one that Goose begged me not to buy because she wants the same one. My girls have this perpetual “copying” feud going on where if someone wants the same thing as the other, the other just assumes the someone only wants it because the other wants it, and then if the someone gets it then the other no longer wants it because the someone has it, and even though the other still secretly really, really wants it and will remind the someone that the someone is just a big fat copycat jerk who deprived the other of the other’s heart’s desire, the other will not allow the other’s own anger and grief over the situation to be appeased by the receiving of the same thing because the someone already has it, so the thing is just dead to the other now.
I also asked her to clarify the very BIG boxes request. She said, “Like cardboard boxes. Really BIG boxes.”
My children know that they will never get everything on their lists. Partly because I make that verbally clear every time they hand me a list, and partly from past experience of never having it happen before. Even the years when they’ve given me a very short and modest list that I could easily purchase everything and still stay within the budget, I still make it a point to not get everything on the list. I just don’t want to set that kind of precedent. Plus, I like them to be surprised. The only thing that is more fun than providing them with their requested hearts’ desires is surprising them with their previously unrealized hearts’ desires. Oh, and also the idea that their wish lists are just them writing my shopping lists for me really torques me off.
I know we hear a lot of talk about the sense of entitlement kids seem to have these days, but it’s true. Last year, for my neighbor’s daughter’s (one of DynaGirl’s BFFs) birthday party, my neighbor hired a limo to take everyone to Build-a-Bear and then out to lunch at a trendy (read non-cheap) restaurant. That was in addition to all of the birthday gifts she was already receiving. OK, that’s her perogative as a parent. But I’ve had a really hard time holding my tongue when my neighbor complains about her daughter always asking and whining for things and complaining about the things she does get. Some of these behaviors are learned. We play a part in setting our children’s expectations. (I should add that my neighbor is a wonderful parent in many, many respects. Probably more wonderful than me in many ways. She just has this tendency at times to try to make her kids happy by giving them everything they want.)
My kids do not want for much, but I’m trying really hard to teach them gratitude, and that I don’t owe them anything more than food, clothing, shelter and all of my love. What more should they ask for, right?
A meme! The quintessential slacker post (except for the whole 50 questions part—50?!). This comes by way of Susan.
1. Do you like blue cheese? I avoid sad foods as a general rule. You are what you eat.
2. Have you ever smoked a cigarette? Not unless you count the time when I was 5 and I picked up an old butt (cigarette butt) out of the gutter and pretended to smoke it. I didn’t inhale, though.
3. Do you own a gun? I’ve got two glue guns stashed in my laundry room right now. Just in case…
4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? What kind of restaurant serves flavorless drinks? And what chumps are actually paying for these? Add your own flavor—humph—I’ll tell you somethin’.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Only if they’re womanly. I’m very shy.
6. What do you think of hot dogs? Ditto Susan. Simultaneously disgusting and delicious.
7. Your favorite Christmas song? Amy Grant’s Breath of Heaven. It’s real perdy.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Depends on what I’m eating.
9. Can you do push-ups? Plural? All of my push-ups come in pairs.
10. What is your favorite movie? I don’t really have one, but if you put a gun to my head I would probably say Pride & Prejudice. I can watch it over and over. My most oft quoted movies, however, are Napoleon Dynamite, A Christmas Story, Princess Bride and Better Off Dead.
11. What is your favorite piece of jewelry? My wedding ring. (One of my favorite memories of my grandmother is riding in the car with her when she realized she’d forgotten to put on her clip-on earrings and her saying, “Oh, I just feel naked without my jewel-ry!)
12. Favorite hobby? Reading, writing, couch-potatoing
13. Do you work with people who idolize you? Define work.
14. Do you have ADD? I made it all the way to question 14, didn’t I?
15. What’s one trait you hate about yourself? Slackery
16. What’s your middle name? the
17. Name three thoughts at this moment.
Quick—think of something interesting/amusing. I’ve got nothing.
I hate it when if feels like there’s something in my nose.
There is something in my nose. Did I just walk the girls to school like that? Did anyone notice?
18. Name 3 things you bought yesterday. My child’s love with a chocolate chip cookie. That is all.
19. Current worry right now? My sink is full of dishes again.
21. Current hate right now? dirty dishes
22. Favorite place to be? At home, somewhere out of view of my kitchen sink.
23. How did you bring in the New Year? Watching my son blow up like a balloon after eating a pistachio.
24. Where would you like to go? Italy, England, Hogwarts (the real Hogwarts, but not the dungeon—it scares me)
25. Name three people who will complete this. Whichever (whatever? whoever? whomever?) slackers are in need of a post.
26. Whose answer do you want to read the most? Madhousewife
27. What color shirt are you wearing? brown
28. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets? What kind of hussy do you take me for?
29. Can you whistle? Melodically? Yes. Two fingered-ly? No.
30. Favorite color? Green. Like this:
Mmmmm…guacamole…oh hoho ho…
31. Would you be a pirate? Only if I could have the wise-cracking parrot. Actually, I’d rather be the wise-cracking parrot.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower? Most recently, Ghetto Supastar. I heard it on the radio yesterday, and it’s stuck in my brain. Quick, somebody sing something else.
33. Favorite girl’s name? I just like to call everyone dude.
34. Favorite boy’s name? See #33.
35. What’s in your pocket right now? loose threads and my fingers
36. Last thing (person) that made you laugh. BigHugs saying, “Mom, I want to be a piggy for Halloween, but I don’t want to get all muddy.”
37. Best bed sheets as a child? rubber
38. Worst injury you’ve ever had? I tore my achilles tendon playing soccer in the 6th grade. It still gives out if I try to run more than a couple of miles (and by still, I mean the last time I tried, which was like 15 years ago).
39. What is your favorite snack? cheetos—pure, delicious evil
40. Favorite thing to do on Sundays? watch my kids draw
41. Who is your loudest friend? My oldest sister. Right, Mad? (Mad’s not the oldest.)
42. How many dogs do you have? I’m not really a dog person. Or a drool person. Or a shedding person. Or a smelly person. Or a pooper scooper person. (I’m not really a pet person at all.)
43. Does someone have a crush on you? yes
45. What is your favorite book? Pride & Prejudice
46. What is your favorite candy? Junior Mints. Who’s going to turn down a Junior Mint? It’s chocolate, it’s peppermint, it’s delicious! It’s very refreshing!
47. What is your favorite sports team? Eh?
48. What song do you want played at your funeral? I don’t actually plan on dying, but this one is very sweet and peaceful and hopeful. I’d want them to play it from me to my kids.
49. What were you doing at 12 am last night? Watching Silar cut somebody’s brain open, and wondering what the heck was wrong with me that I wasn’t already in bed.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up this morning? Why? (Not why on the question, just why.)
Last week my phone kept ringing once. One ring and then nothing. A few minutes later, one ring and nothing. Nothing would even pop up on my caller ID. I picked up the phone and heard crazy-crackling static and no dial tone. Hmm. I went through the house, making sure every phone was properly hung up and checked again. CRAZY static. And crackling. No creepy voice informing me they were calling from inside my house. And no dial tone. I tried dialing my home phone with my cell phone. Busy signal. Seems like the phone would be off the hook, right? So I checked again. Everything was properly plugged in and hung up and yet the static remained and the dial tone stayed away. Darn it all, my phone line was broke!
My next step was to consult my local phone company’s online support center. The troubleshooting section took me through a series of steps to try and diagnose the source of the problem. It said I needed to determine if it was a problem with the inside or outside wiring. To do that, I had to go outside, open the phone box thingy and flip open the jack doo-hickey and plug in a phone to see if it functioned properly. If it didn’t work then it was a problem with the outside wiring and the phone company would fix it at their own cost, and if it did then it was a problem with the inside wiring and I’d have to foot the bill. I’ll give you five guesses which one it was, and the first one doesn’t count (seeing how there’s only two possible answers, if you need the last three guesses there’s something wrong with you).
I called Chuck, who’s been out of town (of course), to see how I should proceed, and we decided I really had no choice but to suck it up and schedule the service call. You know what I found most upsetting about this whole thing? Was it the fact that my phone line was broken and I was without my land line? No. Or the fact that I’d be stuck with no doubt a hefty bill for my troubles? No. It was the fact that my house was a mess and I had every intention of being a total slacker and completely ignoring it, but now I had the telephone repair guy coming and I would have to clean my house. I was actually near tears at the thought. I even briefly considered waiting to schedule the appointment for a day when my house already happened to be clean, but having no earthly idea of when that might actually happen I thought better of it. I kind of needed the phone. So I scheduled the appointment and cleaned my house and the guy came out and figured out the problem and now my phone works and my house is presentable for all types of visitors, expected or not. But will I have any? Of course not. Because the house is already clean. It’s like an unwritten law of the universe.
For the past couple of months, I’ve actually been thinking about this quite a bit. One night I was sitting on my bed reading when I heard this pop, pop, pop noise that sounded kind of gunfire-ish. I looked out the window, but as far as I could tell, nothing was amiss. But it got me thinking, what if it had been gunfire? What if that pop, pop, pop had pop, pop, popped right through my window and struck me? Chuck had been out of town then, too, so there would have been no one to drive me to the hospital. I’d have to call 911. And depending on the severity of the wound, I might have to wait for them in my bedroom. My bedroom which was covered bed to floor with laundry in various states of cleanliness. Would they look around my room in disgust and say, “Pack it up, boys. This woman does not deserve our help.” and I’d bleed out between the whites and colors? I’ve never tested the response time of my local emergency personnel. Would I be able to fold and put away the clean laundry and throw the dirty laundry in the wash before they arrived? Or before I passed out from the blood loss? Maybe I could grab a towel from the bathroom and somehow secure it to the wound, so that I could go downstairs to wait for them there? But with a gunshot wound there would most likely be a mandatory investigation, which would no doubt necessitate the inspection of the scene of the crime, which would mean they would still have to go up to my bedroom, discover that I was indeed a total slob, close the case and move onto solving crimes with victims more deserving of their time and resources.
I concluded that there was just no way I could allow myself to be seriously injured in the squalor of my bedroom. But what about a minor injury? After all, that pop, pop, pop noise wasn’t very loud so it couldn’t have come from a high caliber weapon. More likely it was a BB gun or something. Getting shot with a BB gun is really no big deal, right? Probably very little blood, too. In that case, I could just drive myself to the hospital, tell them I’d been shot in a drive-by or something, and avoid the whole ugly crime scene. Although, once they really started questioning me they would likely find the holes in my story and trick me into confessing that I had, indeed, been shot in my bedroom and then they’d visit the crime scene and I’d be back to square one.
I also started to worry about those little BB’s. What if one got in my bloodstream and traveled to my heart or lungs? Can you get a pulminary embolism from a BB? I just wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since I’d seen ER, and I only watch Grey’s Anatomy for the witty banter. That could be serious, right? Life threatening even. I couldn’t risk this day dreamed scenario. I decided right then and there that I must never be shot in my bedroom while reading a book. And the only way to ensure that would never ever happen would be to keep my room neat and tidy at all times. Because obviously there would be no need for anyone to be there if it was clean. No one ever just drops in when your house happens to be clean. Unwritten law.
So you know the old joke about moms asking if you’re wearing clean underwear before you go out, and it’s supposed to be so just in case you’re in a car accident you won’t be embarrassed to have the medical personnel discover your dirty drawers? Well, that’s not really why moms say that. They say that because clean underwear is like a talisman of protection. Cleanliness is actually the only 100% effective prophylactic against bodily harm or other such calamities. Of course, there is the flipside to these laws of the universe. I’d hazard a guess that an immaculate home is just asking for Hurricane Huey, and clean underwear likely drastically reduces the chances you’ll get lucky. Plan accordingly.
You can read part I here.
This is how my children spend their time during our church services.
Mr. T
DynaGirl
Goose
I threw all y’all’s names in a hat—literally, see:
DynaGirl drew out Susan M and Goose drew out Cheryl, which just goes to show if you stick around here long enough sooner or later you’re bound to get something out of it. Congrats to the winners! Condolences to the non-winners. I actually felt so badly about disappointing so many of my fellow Office fanatics that I had my girls draw out two more names. So more congrats to Julie and Boquinha who will each be receiving a small consolation prize.
Looky here! Madhousewife in all her goodness and wisdom has bestowed upon me the most prestigious of honors. Behold.
And all I had to do was write the mother of all mad libs!
For those of you who aren’t familiar with Ho. Nuva. Level. (HNL), please allow me to enlighten you.
Have a great weekend!
After months of anicipation, it’s finally here! The Office season premiere! I could not be more excited, and in honor of this momentous occasion, I am giving away some Office themed goodies (the value of which is incalculacable) for you, my fellow Office fans. And if you’re not a fan of The Office, it’s OK—I may not understand you, but I respect your right to exist.
The Office prize packs (there are two) include a mini-steno pad, pen and pencil set, magnets, sticky notes and an anti-stress toy in a Dwight or Pam theme. Just leave a comment and your name will go into the hat. I’ll post the winners on Monday.
Have you ever been over to the official NBC The Office site? There’s lots of fun stuff over there for the die-hard Office fan, including blogs by Dwight and Creed, some trivia and personality tests and these hilarious little webisodes. The webisodes are mini Office episodes exclusive to the website that tells a story in several small installments. I think the most current one is “Kevin’s Loan”, in which Kevin finds himself in financial trouble and hatches a scheme to get a small business loan to pay off his gambling debts. There are some classic Kevin moments, as well as some great scenes with Darryl, who is tragically under used in the network episodes, as far as I’m concerned. You can find all five installments of “Kevin’s Loan” here, but here is part three just to give you a taste, as in “Taste the Ice Cream”.
Only 7 more hours!!
A week ago last Saturday, DynaGirl went with Goose and the neighbor and the neighbor’s daughters (DG’s and G’s BFFs) to open gym at the place Goose takes gymnastics. About an hour after they left, I got a call from my neighbor saying that DynaGirl had fallen off the balance beam and hurt her shoulder. They iced it there, and when she got home I iced it some more and gave her some ibuprofen. It wasn’t swollen or bruised and didn’t have any other sign of injury. We figured with a few days rest she’d be good to go. It was sore and tender for about three days, and then she just sort of stopped complaining about it. A couple of days after that, I noticed DynaGirl still wasn’t moving it normally. She had trouble lifting and extending her upper arm, and whenever she got dressed, she would use her other hand to pull her arm through the sleeve. I decided I had better get her into the doctor just in case. It was Friday and after hours for her regular doctor, and since I try to avoid the walk-in clinic as much as possible, I decided to call on Monday. They didn’t have an appointment available with her regular doc on Monday, so I just scheduled one for Tuesday.
So I took DynaGirl to the doctor yesterday to have her arm checked out. The doctor was totally puzzled by the lack of pain that accompanied the lack of movement. She said it was like DynaGirl had dislocated it, but she had never seen a case of dislocation where the patient wasn’t in fairly intense pain. We went to x-ray. It wasn’t dislocated. It was broken. BRO-ken broken. Like totally and completely all-the-way-through-the-bone broken. What kind of mother lets her daughter walk around with a broken arm for 10 days? This one. This one does.
They were very nice to me about it—tried to reassure me there was really no way of knowing given how little DynaGirl had complained. At least five people commented on how remarkable it was that she wasn’t in obvious pain with that kind of break. We ended up going to see the ortho guy, and he said it actually looks good. It’s slightly angulated, but he’s fully confident that as she grows it will all readjust itself perfectly and in a couple of years (a couple of years?) we’ll never even be able to tell it was broken. She’s got a couple weeks in a sling, and then we go back for a follow-up.
So I guess my negligence hasn’t caused her any permanent damage, but I still feel like crap.
Moral of the story—You can totally screw up with your kids and they’ll still be OK. And you can have a dozen people tell you it’s not your fault, and you’ll still feel like crap.
Remember this? I’ve been pretty disappointed not to have received any further updates on Chantella and Cristoph. Oh Daydream Believer, where are you? Have your dreams come true? I did, however, recently receive (OK, I just had to look up “receive”. You know how you type a word, but it looks wrong, so you type it the other way and it looks wrong, too? Even though it’s right? And it’s a word you’ve known how to spel [Holy ironic mispelling {Holy frick! I just misspelled mispelling. Double the irony! Double the fun!}, Batman! I left it in for your amusement.] correctly for at least 25 years, and you’ve been doing so with absolutely no problem until right this second?) (Is there a limit to how many parentheticals you can have within a parenthetical? Did I just misspell parenthetical? Now I have to look that one up, too. Phew! I got that one right.)
Where was I? Oh yeah, I recently received this:
Sister Bythelbs,
Just a note to ask if you still have a copy of the poem I wrote??? I forgot to keep one for my file. I don’t know what I was thinking. If you do, please e-mail it to me. Also thanks for the squash. It was soooooo GOOD! The reunion was so great and the Temple was just perfect. Love Betty
Betty, Betty, Betty. What were you thinking? You always keep one for the file. I sure hope that other Sis. Bythelbs kept the poem. That would be kind of awkward to have to admit to Betty that the poem was not treasured enough to have been kept in a safe place where it could be properly cherished for all eternity. I hate to admit it, but I was halfway tempted to write a reply, thanking her for her praise of my gardening and gathering skills and including my own made up version of her poem. But I thought better of it. It’s just not neighborly to be screwing with people like that. And I’m good folk. Deep down.
But if I weren’t such good folk, and you were me, what kind of poem might I/you write?
I could really go for some of that squash right about now.
On Friday, Mr. T went on a campout with his boy scout troop. This was his second attempt. The first campout did not go over so well as it was raining and cold and there were irritating boys whose sole purpose in Mr. T’s estimation was to make everyone else miserable. Friday afternoon I reminded him it was time to get ready and he heaved a heavy sigh. Chuck and I decided long ago that scouting would not be something we would force upon our son, but Mr. T is the type of kid who occasionally needs a little nudging to do anything besides sit at the computer so we’re still trying to gently encourage him. He agreed to go and got everything ready. We were to meet at our church at 4:50 pm so they could leave at 5 pm sharp. The scoutmaster ended up being over an hour late. Whatever. It was also raining and cold. And there were irritating boys whose sole purpose was to make Mr. T miserable. I’m not sure we can talk him into going a third time. I’m not sure we’ll even try.
Saturday night DynaGirl woke up sobbing. She’d had a nightmare. She said she dreamed that Mr. T, BigHugs and I had all died. Yikes. That’s a nightmare. The kind I have frequently. I have times where my subconscious is a little too preoccupied with death. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had nightmares about losing members of my family. They’re awful. And even the relief of waking up and realizing it was just a dream isn’t enough to take away the feeling of dread. It just lingers and makes me want to cry. Sometimes I do, like DynaGirl.
My favorite death dreams are the ones where someone dead comes back to life, specifically my mom. I used to dream about her all the time—that she was still alive and everything was back to normal. Those were actually good dreams, and even though I would wake up only to realize she was still gone, that repeated grief and disappointment was totally worth having her back for a few imaginary moments. Sometimes I would dream that she was still alive, but then she would die again in my dream. Those sucked. No fair to have to relive it.
On Sunday night, we were all sitting at the dinner table when I noticed this weird noise in the background. My kids were convinced it was the dryer. I thought, “It damn well better not be the dryer because that is definitely not how the dryer is supposed to sound, which could only mean that something is terribly, terribly wrong with the dryer and didn’t we just do the whole dead washer routine?” I decided to investigate and ended up poking my head out the front door to find an ambulance and fire engine outside my neighbor’s house. The weird background noise was the fire engine idling.
We go to church with these neighbors (an older couple with mostly grown kids and one 16 year old son at home), and have lived across the street from them for over seven years. My first thought was one of them must have had a heart attack. They’re both large people. Lovely, lovely people, but large. I was afraid. I sent Chuck over to investigate, and it turns out Mrs. Lovely large neighbor had her leg just collapse out from under her. She heard a pop and then it just folded. Ouch. Her husband said it happened in their bedroom, which is downstairs, while he was away, so she called out to her teenage son, who was upstairs, but he couldn’t hear her so she called him on his cell phone. This is a small house, but thank goodness for cell phones, I guess. Her son called his dad and he came home. Chuck said the son was still upstairs when he got there. I was wondering if he was still upstairs or upstairs again. Surely he didn’t just stay upstairs and leave his poor mother alone in her misery until dad arrived. Surely.
I was just so relieved no one had a heart attack. I’m going to check on her today.
Today Chuck left for a 10-day business trip. Again with the business trips. It would have been a full two weeks only DynaGirl’s birthday is next Thursday and Chuck missed her birthday two years ago while on business in Italy, and DynaGirl has never let him forget it. She still brings it up at random non-birthday related times. “Remember that time you missed my birthday?”
He broke the news to the kids Friday night over dinner.
Chuck: I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?
DynaGirl: Bad news.
Chuck: I have to go on another trip.
DynaGirl and Goose: What? Again?
DynaGirl: You’re going to miss my birthday! Again!
Chuck: Wait for the good news.
DynaGirl, sulking.
Chuck: I’m coming back on your birthday.
DynaGirl: Yay! Wait, what time?
He’ll be home before she gets home from school, but I love how quick she was to make sure he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on her. Like not getting home until nighttime would have been totally cheating because he still would have basically missed her birthday. Again.
So, to sum up:
stupid campouts = bad
death = bad
jacked-up leg = better than a heart attack
DynaGirl = forgive, but not forget
How was your weekend?
Are you rat or pig?
My spam filters still leave something to be desired, but the upside is I occasionally get one of these little gems.
“I never once act doubted encouraging annoyed kept your doing so.” Monte Cristo “And you religion shoed have confused doubtless brought all sent your papers wi
cushion “There space is sign only one thing which shirt grieves me,” observ “What papers?” “Yes.” employ “Ah, my M. Cavalcanti, below I trust fear rail you will not l
“Ah, debt language your promptly excellency, I am letter overwhelmed with deligh “What papers?”
What papers?!
“Happy stormy father, squeaky carelessly swum happy son!” said the count. slimy “The register of the birth sadly buzz stridden of Andrea Cavalcanti—o wind sprung rule “Really, sir, you must allow that this ornithic is most ext
need curtain “Let gaze us try what we can arch do, then,” said the notary “Happy brake father, knit thread upset happy son!” said the count.
Happy stormy father, upset happy son—I’m confused, are they happy or not? And who’s this count?
“I never once act doubted encouraging annoyed kept your doing so.” Monte Cristo “And you religion shoed have confused doubtless brought all sent your papers wi
The count of Monte Cristo? Again with the papers.
And my personal favorite:
The mind major horse pump passed his insect hand across his brow. “Ah, pe “Yes.” “Certainly I do.”
Certainly do what? Now I’m intrigued. I’d like to hear the rest of this story.
In the car.
Goose: I feel like I have an extra toe.
Me: What?
Goose: It feels like there’s an extra toe on my foot.
Me: What are you talking about?
Goose: You know how your hand has a finger that comes out the side? I feel like there’s a toe like that on my foot.
A phantom thumb toe. No wonder she has a hard time with shoes and socks.
After dinner.
DynaGirl: Can girls be hobos?
Me: Yeah.
DynaGirl: Yes! I wanna be a hobo when I grow up!
Goose: I want to be a hobo when I grow up.
DynaGirl: Why do you always have to copy people?
Again with the hobos. And the copying.
Any time.
BigHugs: I need some chocolate milk to watch Tom & Jerry.
That’s pretty much all she says lately.
After a spaz-attack by one of the girls.
Mr. T: Was I adopted?
Me: No.
Mr. T: I had to have been adopted.
Me: Hey, if you were adopted that means you wouldn’t be related to me. Harumph.
Mr. T: Well, then was everyone else adopted?
Me: Totally.
I tell them all the same thing—whatever they need to hear.
So I sent a note with DynaGirl’s math homework, saying I didn’t understand how she was supposed to answer these questions without any context. Her teacher told her that since there was not enough information to really determine the answer, she was to mark one of the middle boxes. Wha? Since when does “there’s no way of knowing based on the information provided” = “kind of unlikely or kind of very likely”? Whatever. It’s still a dumb math program.
As for Mr. T’s teacher, I questioned Mr. T a little more about it today. He said he likes his teacher. She’s nice and fun. Hmmm… Apparently he wasn’t traumatized by the experience. It sounds like she’s fairly young, so I’m going to give her a break and chalk up this particular incident to poor judgment and inexperience. We’ll just have to wait and see if a pattern develops.
And for those of you who are interested, here are the answers to the non-IQ test “test”:
1. 26 L of the A (26 letters of the alphabet)
2. 7 D of the W (7 days of the week)
3. 7 W of the W (7 wonders of the world)
4. 12 S of the Z (12 signs of the zodiac)
5. 66 B of the B (66 books of the bible)
6. 18 H on a G C (18 holes on a golf course)
7. 39 B of the O T (39 books of the old testament)
8. 5 T on a F (5 toes on a foot)
9. 90 D in a R A (90 degrees in a right angle)
10. 3 B M (S H T R) (3 blind mice, see how they run)
11. 32 is the T in D F at which W F (32 is the temperature in degrees Fahrenheit at which water freezes)
12. 15 P in a R T (15 players in a rugby team)
13. 3 W on a T (3 wheels on a tricycle)
14. 100 C in a D (100 coins in a dollar—I think this should have been 100 P in a D)
15. 11 P in a F (S) T (11 players in a football team—I’m guessing the “S” is for starting?)
16. 12 M in a Y (12 months in a year)
17. 13 is U F S (13 is unlucky for some)
18. 8 T on an O (8 tentacles on an octopus)
19. 29 D in F in a L Y (29 days in February in a leap year)
20. 27 B in the N T (27 books in the new testament)
21. 365 D in a Y (365 days in a year)
22. 13 L in a B D (13 loaves in a baker’s dozen)
23. 52 W in a Y (52 weeks in a year)
24. 9 L of a C (9 lives of a cat)
25. 60 M in an H (60 minutes in an hour)
26. 23 P of C in the H B (23 pairs of chromosomes in the human body)
27. 64 S on a C B (64 squares on a chess/checker board)
28. 9 P in S A (9 provinces in South Africa—well, duh)
29. 6 B to an O in C (6 balls to an over in cricket—wha?)
30. 1000 Y in a M (1000 years in a millenium)
31. 15 M on a D M C (15 men on a dead man’s chest)
32. 52 C in a P (W J) ( 52 cards in a pack without jokers)
33. 13 S in the U S F (13 stripes in the United States flag)
I used to be one of those people who thought homeschooling was insane. Why would anyone do that? Why would you want to do that? But now that I’m older and see the differences in children’s needs and learning styles and am better acquainted with the public education system in general, I can understand why some parents would choose this road. It’s still not for me, but I no longer think they’re off their rockers. For the most part.
Last year our school district implemented a new math program at the elementary level designed to teach math skills in a way that students could apply them in everyday life. I guess the idea is that if they can see the practical applications they will more readily understand the concepts. This sounds like a good idea in theory, but I think the execution still leaves something to be desired.
This worksheet was part of DynaGirl’s homework last night:
Number 6 says, “How likely is it that my head will explode?”
DynaGirl (who is in 3rd grade this year) started her homework while I was out running errands. When I came home she was very frustrated. After reading over this worksheet, I totally understood why. There was no accompanying sheet of instructions or story or math book to consult in reference to these questions. We determined that number 1 was very unlikely because turkeys just don’t get that big, do they? But the other questions? Who the hell is Hugh, and how are we supposed to know how old he is likely to be? What do they mean by “mosquitoes for company”? If they’re asking how likely it is that Hugh invited them over for tea, I would say not likely, but if Hugh’s camping or hanging out by a lake or something, then sure he’s more than likely to have a few mosquitoes hanging around. And apparently Hugh is hanging out by a lake because he’s catching a million fish. Only a million likely an exaggeration—you know how men (or boys named Hugh who may or may not be 8 years old) are with their fish stories. And where did these pirates come from? Why cypress trees? Would the answer be any different if they were palm trees?
It’s all so random. Where is the context? What exactly is the lesson here? It’s just stupid. And pointless.
Mr. T is in 7th grade this year and is part of an honors program, which includes advanced math and social studies and English classes for the “gifted” students. On Monday, his social studies teacher told his class that they had over-enrolled the honors classes that year and would be administering an IQ test to determine which kids would stay in the class and which would be dropped. She gave them a 33 question test, and before they started told them that if they got 19 questions right, they would be assured a place in the program and if the got 15 questions right they still had a really good chance, but anything less than that would be iffy.
Needless to say, a lot of the kids were stressed out, and Mr. T said one boy was near tears while taking the test. The test was a series of word puzzles or phrases that included numbers and letters. The letters represented the first letter of a word in a phrases. For example, 24 H in a D would be 24 hours in a day. After the test was over, the teacher informed the class that it was all a joke and that they had just taken the test for fun. Mr. T said he was very relieved as after they corrected the test he found that he had only answered 12 questions correctly.
Are you kidding me? It was a joke? Most of these kids were all freaked out about the possibility of being dropped from the program, and some of them, close to tears, had nearly cracked under the pressure. What kind of teacher does this? So. Lame. And. Wrong.
Just out of curiosity, I took the test and got 18 1/2 right. How many can you get? If anyone gets #28 right, I’ll eat my hat.
1. 26 L of the A
2. 7 D of the W
3. 7 W of the W
4. 12 S of the Z
5. 66 B of the B
6. 18 H on a G C
7. 39 B of the O T
8. 5 T on a F
9. 90 D in a R A
10. 3 B M (S H T R)
11. 32 is the T in D F at which W F
12. 15 P in a R T
13. 3 W on a T
14. 100 C in a D
15. 11 P in a F (S) T
16. 12 M in a Y
17. 13 is U F S
18. 8 T on an O
19. 29 D in F in a L Y
20. 27 B in the N T
21. 365 D in a Y
22. 13 L in a B D
23. 52 W in a Y
24. 9 L of a C
25. 60 M in an H
26. 23 P of C in the H B
27. 64 S on a C B
28. 9 P in S A
29. 6 B to an O in C
30. 1000 Y in a M
31. 15 M on a D M C
32. 52 C in a P (W J)
33. 13 S in the U S F
I got this from Goose Sunday.
Dear MoM
I Love you
as a MoM
Ethen no
we are in fits some-
Times Love Goose
I love the qualifiers—
“as a MoM”
“Ethen no we are in fits someTimes”
I’m grateful for the we instead of a you. Maybe she really doesn’t think it’s all my fault when she storms up the stairs screaming I hate you at the top of her lungs. She’s taking some responsibility for her part in it, just as I need to do. What is it about an angry 6 year old that brings out the angrier 6 year old in me?
Oh, and the best part is just moments before receiving this card, I had discovered Goose with my ribbon and scissors and gave her a stern lecture about not getting into my things without asking. She said, “I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted to make you a card.” I cut off a length of ribbon for her and walked away wondering why I had to make everything a lesson, a reminder of my rules. She brought me the card a few minutes later with the ribbon tied in a jumbled mess, and asked if I would help with the bow. I tied the bow then untied the bow then read the letter and allowed myself to just feel grateful for a forgiving daughter.
This is a post about nothing. But not in the hilarious Seinfeld way. Just nothing. What do you think about that?
Who’s on your list?
A few months ago my brother recommended a documentary to me. I generally enjoy documentaries, but rarely get out to the theater or even rental places. I decided I needed to keep my eye out for this one, though. It’s called Young @ Heart and it’s about a group of senior citizens who perform cover songs of more contemporary artists. It looks like it comes out on DVD next week.
Here’s a clip from the movie that really got to me.
I can’t wait to see this movie.
OK, so yesterday I called Chuck at work to let him know the washer part came, so he could hopefully come home a little early to repair it because he had other appointments yesterday evening, and as I had already established we were getting into a serious crisis of underpants. He came home about an hour early and installed our new timer in less than 30 minutes. We decided to run it through a super short cycle with no clothes just to make sure it was working properly before we through a bunch of clothes in there only to end up with a big sopping wet mess of half-clean duds (I’m liking this duds thing, although, maybe next time I’ll try threads. Threads would be cool–it’s so Huggy Bear.)
Anywho, we run it through a cycle and it kind of has this extra long pause before the rinse cycle, which is where it was totally stopping before. It would agitate through the wash cycle and then just stop dead, not draining or rinsing or spinning. There were a couple of times that I was able to coax it into the other part of the cycle with some creative knob-turning (or so I thought—a little foreshadowing for you there), so we assumed it must be the timer. We had had to replace the timer about 5 years ago, and at the time when I complained to the repair man about the washer being less than two years old and shouldn’t the dang timer last longer than that, he replied, “You never know about timers. They could last 30 minutes or 30 years. You just never know.”
But coming back to the present now (or the not as past past since I’m talking about last night), it seemed like a really loooong pause, so we were worried it wasn’t fixed after all and I was about ready to cry. I had already sorted 7 loads of laundry and I was ready to go! I leaned forward onto the washer to hang my head in my hands in despair, and the rinse cycle kicked in. We thought, huh, maybe we just don’t have an accurate idea of how long each part of the cycle takes. I mean, it’s not like we ever sit in the laundry room and watch the washer. I don’t even have one of those cool front loaders with the glass doors so that you can see the clothes swishing around. I suppose if I did, that might be a tempting pasttime. So with a great deal of relief I went about my merry way cooking dinner while the washer finished washing all of my underwear. Success!
With one load of victory under my belt, I decided to tackle the rest of my mountain, and threw in another load. Well, I went upstairs to tend to this and that, and when I came back downstairs, I noticed that the machine had paused again after the agitating part of the cycle. I stood there for a full five minutes waiting for it to kick in. I knew something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Some drama ensued, which included some loud and emotional muttering on my part. I leaned forward on the washer, putting my weight on the lid while I peered over the back to see if there was something weird going on with the drain pipe or some other washing machine ailment that would miraculously make itself known to me and that I would then know what to do about, and the washer kicked back on again. Startled, I jumped back a little and it stopped. I pushed back down on the lid and it started. I eased back and it stopped. Push, on. Pull back, stop. Hmmmm. Push, on. Pull back, on. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
I figured it must have something to do with the little sensor thingy under the lid that lets it know if the lid is open or not. Our washing machine will continue to agitate when the lid is open (I always thought this was strange as our last washing machine always stopped whatever it was doing when we opened the lid), but will stop spinning, rinsing, etc. I let the washer finish its cycle, because hey, it was working, so better not to interrupt its workingness—I had a load of colors at stake here, including the shirt Mr. T was supposed to be wearing for school pictures today.
After that load was done, I threw in another, and when it stopped this time, I opened the lid and fiddled with the little sensor button thing. (By this time everyone was in bed, so I was left to my own devices.) When I pushed it down the washer came back on, but I also noticed that it had quite a bit of give to it. It was loose, so when the lid was shut, the little pointy thing that was supposed to push on the sensor to indicate the lid was closed was just pushing the whole piece down and thus not making the right connections. I tried tightening the screws to keep it in position, but the screws just kind of spun. So I did the next best thing to actually repairing something, and pulled out the duct tape. My washing machine lid sensory doohickey thing is now being held securely in place with the cure all of home improvement and repair. The cycle, of course, finished. And when I threw in another load, it ran all the way through without incident. I fixed my not really broken washing machine all by myself with a roll of duct tape!
So the moral of the story is threefold:
1. Don’t call a washer repairman to look at your “broken” washing machine because even though the thing you thought was wrong with it, wasn’t actually and you spent $150 (with shipping) on a part you didn’t need, you have 90 days to return said part, and while you’ll lose the $15 shipping charge (and whatever it will cost you to ship it back, which I assure you will not be any $15 for a 1 lb part!) you will still end up paying considerably less than a $60+ whatever bogus work/part they’d tell you you’d need service call.
2. Sometimes when it ain’t broke, you still have to fix it.
3. Never underestimate the power of duct tape.
Chuck offered to look into replacing the sensor, but I’m thinking it’s not that it’s broken, it just doesn’t want to stay put, and since I’ve already remedied that with the duct tape, what would be the point? And I do apologize to all of you who may feel I’ve betrayed our sex with the employment of the infamous duct tape for a home repair project. But I’m really having a hard time feeling too badly about it, sitting here in my soft as a summer’s breeze and fresh as the morning dew undies.
Do you have any home improvement/repair success stories to share? Or maybe some stories about being totally wrong about something and feeling kind of dumb and that you’d wasted a bunch of money and time and energy being stressed out about the something and even devoting a number of blog posts to said something that wasn’t even an actual something, but just a kind of something yet it all worked out in the end so you guess it doesn’t really matter to share?
Little pointy thing:
Duct tape repair:
Non-broken timer Chuck will be putting back in this weekend so we can return the non-necessary timer:
Paper towel I used to wipe down my washer before I took the pictures:
Some of my happy, little piles of clean laundry:
Some of my laundry still waiting to be ready for placement in a happy, little pile of cleanliness:
So the appointment went fine. She did ask about the eating, but said she wasn’t too concerned since BigHugs gained 5 lbs over the last year and grew 3 1/2 inches, so she’s doing great. She only said to try and make sure she gets some protein. Something about brain develo…blah, blah, blah. Now with the potty-training, she had a big talk with BigHugs about being a big girl and using the potty and only wearing diapers at night and told me I could make her the bad guy, “The doctor said no more daytime diapers.” She says BigHugs is ready, it’s just a control issue. Well, duh. But we’ll see. I’m trying to psych myself up for tomorrow being the big day. I gotta go get me some m&m’s, I guess. With the sleeping, she said she totally knew where I was coming from (BigHugs ends up in bed with us at some point every night) as her youngest tried to sleep with them until she was 6. She offered some suggestions that I think I might actually try (after we get the potty thing figured out—can’t do too many things at once). And thank heavens she didn’t ask about the television! Woo-hoo!
But more importantly, my washer part is here! It’s here, it’s here, it’s here!!! I might actually get to wear clean underwear tomorrow! (Don’t worry, I’m wearing clean underwear now, but I’m on my last pair.)
Today BigHugs goes in for her 3 year well child check, which means her doctor is going to ask about
her eating habits,
her sleeping habits,
her bathroom habits,
and her television habits.
Crap.
I hope I at least have time to bathe her before we go.
Or could you maybe just beam me down some fresh duds?
Bythelbs: Washer…still…broken. Part…in…transit. Our underwear supplies…dangerously low. We’ve…got to do something!
Chuck: Dammit, Bythelbs! I’m an engineer not a Maytag man!
I’ve spent the past 6+ months talking up the potty to BigHugs. We even purchased some fancy shmancy Dora and Curious George pannies. (Yes, I know it’s “panties”, but they’re “pannies” at our house.) The one time I tried to actually put her on her little potty, she screamed. She was fine until her bare bum hit the cold plastic and then it was all over. That was probably five months ago now. Ever since then, whenever we would say, “BigHugs, do you want to try going potty on the toilet?” her response was always, “No, thank you.” At least she was polite about it.
As her third birthday approached, we thought we’d use the big girl angle. “You’re going to be three, BigHugs, and you’ll be a big girl. Will you be ready to use the potty when you’re three?” At first she balked at the idea and offered her usual “No, thank you”, but after a few weeks she gradually seemed to be coming around. We even heard an occasional “When I’m three I’m going to be a big girl and sleep in my own bed and go potty on the toilet.”
Well, three has come and gone, my friends, and all is quiet on the porcelain front. She absolutely refuses to even entertain the idea. We don’t even get the no thank you’s anymore—now it’s, “Stop talking to me.” Or rather, “Stop talking to me!!!”
The other day I thought we had a breakthrough. BigHugs had been complaining about a sore bum. I explained to her that it was because of the diapers, and once she started going potty on the toilet she wouldn’t have that problem anymore. I dared ask, “Are you ready to go potty on the toilet now?” She responded with a heavy sigh, “Ohhh-kay. Sure.” Huh? What was that? Well, at that point it was bedtime, so I thought we’d give her chair a spin in the morning. Puh-haw! By morning we were back to, “Stop talking to me.” Minus the exclamation points, though, so that was nice.
Here’s a conversation we had 30 seconds ago.
Me: What do you think about the potty, BigHugs?
BigHugs: Give me a kiss.
Me: Do you want to go potty on the toilet?
BigHugs: No.
Me: Why not?
BigHugs, running from the room: Because. Voice fading in the distance. I’m going to bed!
Having done the whole potty training thing three times already, I have a little bit of experience with this. I have long ago come to the conclusion that you can not force a child to go potty on the toilet. Sure, you can try, but for me it was a road to nowhere. Or a road to pain and frustration and an inordinate number of pee pee pants and floors. When I allowed my children to decide they were “ready”, it was a much more pleasant experience. With my first two this was around three years old, one a little before and one barely after. With Goose it took a little longer (surprise, surprise), but she was potty trained before three and a half. So I suppose BigHugs still falls in the normal range for my offspring.
I’m just ready to be done with the diapers. So very ready. And by all accounts, so is BigHugs—she wants her diaper changed almost immediately at even the slightest hint of moisture, she retires to a private room and shuts the door when she needs to take care of business, and waits until we get home to do so—except for the whole refusing to sit on the potty thing. I’ve tried bribery. With toys. With candy. With money. She didn’t bite. I’m afraid I find myself at the mercy of a three year old. Again. Sigh.
Do you have any potty success stories to share? Sorry, Madhousewife, feel free to make an off-topic comment.
As I’ve been writing this, I keep hearing “Potty talk. I see your potty talk. You make my potty talk when you’re next to me.”
Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I’m babysitting tomorrow morning for another diaper wearing almost three year old. I can’t remember the last time I babysat a child in diapers. I just hope her daily constitution does not take place between the hours of 9 am to noon. I have always had the hardest time with other people’s children’s diaper deeds. I mean, as a mother, at some point you stop dry-heaving when taking care of your child’s fanny fallout, but other people’s children are a whole different animal. It’s almost other-worldly—like they’re a different species or something. Is it just me? I don’t know what it is, but I’m not sure I’m up for it tomorrow. *shudder*shudder* Keep your fingers crossed for me!
Had a great time with the special visitor! It wasn’t even the slightest bit weird to have my online never before seen in the flesh friend in my home in the flesh, which, really, is exactly what I had expected. Those really are the best kind of friends—the ones who just fit so naturally and effortlessly and seem to have been there all along.
No time to chat. I’m preparing for a special visitor.
Have a happy $!#*&% Friday!
(I can’t figure out why my bleepin’ bleeped out bleepity bleep bleep greeting keeps trying to bleepin’ link somewhere.)
Yesterday DynaGirl came home with her first homework assignment for third grade.
Dear Parents,
This year I am going to live as a writer. I am bringing home my writer’s notebook to decorate the covers as homework this evening. I can use copies of pictures, stickers, scrapbooking paper, magazine pictures, or anything that is flate, tells something about me and is important to me. I can put clear contact paper over the covers to protect my pictures, if I want to.
My teacher shared her writer’s notebook with me today and she explained how the items on the notebook were important to her. She also told me that I can jot down ideas (or story seeds) in my notebook. We are starting a unit on personal narratives, which means that we are writing about things that have really happened in our lives.
Whenever I bring my writer’s notebook home, it is becase I have homework in it. I will not write entire stories in my notebook, but I will get down some ideas that I might want to write more about in class.
Any way, could you please help me gather some items that I can put on my notebook? I need to decorate it tonight. I want to be proud of the work I do and I need to bring it back to school to share in the morning. I am not ever supposed to leave my writer’s notebook at home.
Here are a couple of example. (Two pictures of students holding they’re notebooks up that you can clearly see.)
Thank you,
Ms. V
I can already tell I am going to love this teacher (despite the fact that she started out the letter as one of the kids and then signed her own name). There is nothing more frustrating as a parent than dealing with vague homework instructions. OK, there are probably a few things more frustrating, but this is definitely a pet peeve of mine. I can’t tell you how many times my kids have been almost completely clueless when it comes to a specific project or assignment. I ask for details and the response is inevitably, “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember. She didn’t