The tell-tale t-shirt

So last week I went to girls camp with DynaGirl.  It was all great, fine, whatever.  The details are not important because the only thing I can think about right now is the t-shirt that got left behind.

Quite possibly the most awesome t-shirt that ever was or ever will be.

I realized Friday evening as I was sorting my laundry that my sweats and favorite tee did not make it home.  I must have left them in the bathroom that last morning.  I tracked down the lady who came home with the lost and found box and recovered my sweats, but my t-shirt was nowhere to be found.  I’m assuming since the sweats and tee were last seen together, someone must have “accidentally” decided to take my favorite t-shirt home.

In an effort to cope with this great loss, I have decided that whoever made off with my shirt of awesomeness must have been in desperate need of constant self-affirmation.  So every day he or she will put on my t-shirt and look in the mirror and be able to go on living.  I have decided my t-shirt is saving a life.  Hopefully any guilt this person may feel over having acquired the life-saving t-shirt ill-gottenly will not weigh too heavily on their conscience, slowly driving them into the depths of insanity and despair.  That would be an unfortunate turn of events.  Most unfortunate indeed.

And now I’m going to take a valium and lie down for an indefinite period of time.

*Treasured friend and giver of the tee, please know that I cherished the time I had with this token of your affection and I will miss it forever.  And ever.

Times like these

Yesterday afternoon, just about the time I was pulling in the driveway after picking Mr. T up from school, three boys from his high school were in a car accident.  The driver was killed, another was critically injured.  The third boy will likely make a full recovery, physically—he is Goose’s 4th grade teacher’s son.

Who ever sends their kid to school thinking that will be the last time they will ever see him?

Last Friday, I was rear-ended on my way to BigHugs’ field trip at the pumpkin patch.  Luckily, I was alone in the car—the kids had taken the bus and the parents were following in their own vehicles.  The damage to our van is pretty extensive, but I walked away with just a stiff and sore neck and back.  The couple who hit me were very nice and thankfully insured.  Their insurance company is coming out today to assess the damage. 

People keep asking me about these details.  Who was driving?  What color was the car?  Did you see them coming?  How bad was the jolt?  Did your head snap back?  I don’t remember anything.  One minute I was sitting at a stoplight, and the next I was picking up pieces of my car off the road.

Mr. T is starting driver’s ed in a couple of weeks.  He’ll start behind the wheel training a week after that.  I don’t know if I’m ready for this.

So this middle aged thing…

A couple of weeks ago, as I was helping the kids get ready for bed, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my hand and thought, “Whose hand is that?” Actually, it was more like, “Good frick! Whose old lady hand is that?!” It was wrinkly and veiny and…old. I had a momentary freakout. And when I say freakout, I mean there was a loud display of shock and dismay and just general irrational freakoutedness. My family laughed at me, but I was having a seriously intense moment of middle age crisis. BigHugs came down for a drink of water later that night, and as she hugged me goodnight again she said, “I’m sorry your hands got old.”

Every 4th of July, my brother and sister-in-law throw a huge Independence Day bash for my husband’s side of the family.  There’s a different theme every year.  Last year was the Amazing Race.  This year it was Minute to Win It, based on a television game show where contestants have a minute to perform various random tasks.  I did surprisingly well, making it into the final round of competition (there were just four of the original forty left).  The final task was called paper dragon (follow the link for a video demonstration), in which each player had to un-spool two large rolls of party streamers with a continuous windmill motion of the arms.  I made a valiant effort, but in the end was outdone by a 15 and 10 year old.  The next morning, I could not move my shoulders without excruciating pain.  The pain settled into a throbbing ache by the end of day two, and by day four I was able to wield my hair dryer without wanting to cry.  I kept thinking I was just too old for this crap.

While we were visiting with family this past week I had the lovely opportunity to see the latest Twilight movie with six of my sisters-in-law and two teenage nieces. I’ve decided that these movies must be seen in groups, but if you’re bringing teenagers along be prepared to duck and cover when the screaming starts. After the movie, there was the obligatory discussion of who was hotter—a discussion I always have a difficult time participating in because these are young men. Like, young men.  And we’ve already established that I am no longer a young woman.  I think I brought up the cougar factor, which led to a discussion of what constitutes a cougar.  Some in our group thought you would have to be at least 40 to be granted cougar status, but I said if I’m old enough to be their mother then that did it for me.  I am thoroughly creeped out by the idea of someone my age finding my teenage son sexually attractive.  Thoroughly.

So now I find myself thinking, if I put any stock in that old you’re only as old as you feel bit, I am royally screwed.

 

Potty humor

Last month on our trip to the pumpkin patch, DynaGirl insisted I take a picture of this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A closer look:

 

That’s all I have to say about that.

You can skip this one, Susan

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.

I was wrong!

We survived the pictures!  I can hardly believe it.  If anything, they went too well as I had a most difficult time deciding which poses not to buy.  She just looked so darn cute in all of them that I could hardly bear the thought of them not being admired by someone.  Anyone.  Well, not some creepy person.  Do you ever have guilt over allowing a perfectly delightful image of your precious child to be thrown away?  I almost feel like I’m abandoning them.  And the sales girls totally know it and use it against me.  Manipulative benches.

But the pictures are done!  And now I can breathe easy.  Well, not quite yet, I guess.  There is still the possibility they will get lost.  That happened to me once before with Mr. T.  We had had the most perfect photo session in the history of cheesy department store photo sessions, and two days before I was to pick up the finished prints, they called to tell me they had lost them and I would need to come in to have them retaken.  I cannot even begin to describe the trauma of that event.  It. Was. Ugly.  Given that experience, I guess I won’t claim the victory until I have the pictures in my hot little hands.  It’s going to be a long, anxiety-riddled 10 days.

But enough about me.  Anything stressing you out lately?

Prove me wrong, Universe! and a special comment

Yesterday I made an appointment to have BigHugs’ picture taken.  So you know what that means—some time in the next 24 hours she will either come down with a cold, a raging case of pinkeye or have some other kind of face-maiming accident.  She hasn’t had a professional picture taken in over 2 years.  Can you guess why?  It seems almost irresponsible of me to risk my child’s health and safety this way with an actual scheduled appointment, but for some reason I felt it must be done.  I’m hoping this time the universe will prove me wrong.  Prove me wrong, Universe!  Prove me wrong!

And now, on a more serious note: a Bythelbs special comment. 

Yesterday something else happened that turned my world upside down.  Black is no longer black.  White is no longer white.  Everything is just a big fat puddle of muddled gray.  And just when I was thinking that things might be starting to calm down—that maybe we’re getting ready to move past all of this election drama and settle into our new reality.  But now I’m not so sure we’re ready to move on together.  It seems that we’re as divided as ever. 

I consider myself to be a very open-minded, reasonably non-judgmental person.  I like to think of our little blogging community here at Bythelbsia as a safe place for people of all persuasions, walks of life, values and ideas, but even I’m having difficulty reconciling my affection for dear friends with their individual beliefs and opinions.  No, I am confident I can get past this.  It may not be today or even tomorrow.  But the day will come again when I can see you all as the good, good people that you truly are regardless of your Cheetos-density preference.  It will come.  I must believe it.

Wacky Search Term Wednesday Returns!

I’m not completely convinced I’m ready for this. It may be too soon. A part of me is still grieving over the loss of my last beloved list of wacky search terms. But sometimes you just gotta move on, right? As part of the healing process, no? Disasters strike. Trajedies happen. Stuff gets lost. It’s the circle of life.

So just for kicks, I’m going to throw in a fake. Whoever can correctly guess the faux wacky search term wins a prize. I don’t exactly know what yet, but rest assured it will be something awesome. Or at the very least of little or no monetary value, which with me is pretty much the same thing as I live and die by the motto “There is no charge for awesomeness.” Have you ever gotten a bill?

look alikes obama—Funny, I’ve never gotten that one before. Kurt Cobain, Sam the hobbit, Tommy Lee?  Sure. But Obama? For some reason I’m imagining this gentle googler is Italian.

sock monkeyu—“If a-you say I look alikes obama a-one more time-a, I’ll sock monkeyu in the face-a!” Because sometimes cultural stereotyping is just funny. Or not.

“invisible woman” fetish—Is this the science model? Fantastic Four? Are we talking burqas, here? I’m curious. And also disturbed. Anything with “fetish” attached is automatically a candidate for pervert status, as far as I’m concerned. Unless, of course, it’s a cowbell fetish. That is perfectly understandable. And acceptable. As long as you’re using the cowbell for good, not evil. Do not desecrate the cowbell, sir! Do not dare!

washing machine illustrated—What kind of sicko gets their jollies from washer centerfolds? Are some models sexier than others? Does it make a difference what’s in the load?

“top 10” “innocent search terms”—I suspect this person is really looking for obscure or underground not-so-innocent search terms and is covering his buttocks with the “quotes” in case his boss is monitoring his lunch break computer activities. Plausible deniability, you know? “I have no idea how I got on this invisible woman fetish forum, sir. I was looking for something wholesome!” “And how do you explain these washing machines?” “All right, all right! I confess!”

sock monkey writer—That’s me.

monkey spanked—Step away from my blog, sicko! Go back to your washing machines!

how to sock monkey—Latest dance craze. All the kids are doing it.

sock monkey bra—Is this for you or your sock monkey?  I’m not so sure I’m crazy about the idea of anatomically correct sock monkeys.

sock monkeys instructions—For? What exactly are you trying to get your sock monkey to do? I can’t help you unless you can be more specific.

sock+monkey—Equals awesome.

how many lbs socks to make sock monk—Are we talking Gandhi, Friar Tuck or Tony Shaloub? It makes a difference.

sock monkey goes to hollywood—This sounds like a promising movie franchise: Sock Monkey Goes to Hollywood, Sock Monkey Goes to Camp, Sock Monkey Goes to the Monestary.

sock monkey in love—See above.

i am atwittered about going to the farm—Me too! Those turkeys are vicious little bastards.

circus animal crackers pink tastes nasty—Is there really a difference between the pink and white? Really?

bulk mothers circus cookies—Is this so you can pick out all the white ones? Cookie bigot. You’re probably trying to get rid of those rainbow sprinkles too.

meaning of none taken—They’re trying to say you didn’t offend them. But frankly, I’m a little offended by your ignorance and/or stupidity. Idiot. No offense.

 

So, can you spot the imposter?

Potty Talk

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!

Update: oh woe is me

So I had been debating whether or not to call the restaurant.  Maybe this was a prime opportunity to break this vicious cycle of obsessiveness over insignificant lost items and just get a life already?  I could just accept the fact that I had lost a child’s jacket, right?  And anyway, was it worth the risk of getting my hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of reality?

But I took a friend’s advice and called the restaurant.  A lovely woman answered the phone.

Me:  Um, yeah, I was in there the other night with my family and I wondered if maybe I, uh, left behind my daughter’s jacket.  Do you have like a lost and found or something?

Lovely restaurant woman:  I’ll check.  Just a minute.

Four minutes la-tare…

Seriously, I was sitting on the phone forever.  Had we been disconnected?  Were there really that many items in the lost and found?  This is one of our favorite little hole-in-the-wall family type restaurants that rarely has another soul in site when we go to dine—everyone who had ever been there in the last year would had to have left multiple items behind in order to explain the length of time it was taking LRW to check.  My girls were watching TV.  I heard an advertisement for the Indiana Jones sound FX whip in the backgroud with the Da-da-da-da, Da-da-daaaaaaa, Da-da-da-da, Da-da-da-da-daaaaaa and images of warehouses with eternal rows of shelves a la Raiders of the Lost Ark were conjured up in my mind and I began to feel myself slipping into a snake-pit of despair.  Even if we had left the jacket at the restaurant, it would never be seen by human eyes again!!!

Restaurant Man, maybe Jorge—I like Jorge:  Hello?

Me:  Uh, yes, I was calling about a lost jacket?

RM:  OK, I’ll have somebody check.  pause.  What color was it?

Me:  Pink.

RM:  Is it Old Navy?

Me, trying to compose myself long enough to answer without coming off like a total spaz:  Yes!  Uh, yes, I think that’s it.  Um, what are your hours today?

RM:  We’re open until 9:30 pm.

Me:  OK, thanks.

I immediately hung up and then dialed Chuck’s cell.

Me:  Guess what?  It was at the restaurant!

Chuck:  All right!  Good.  See?  Are you feeling better now?

Me:  Yes, except I’m embarrassed about being such a spaz.

Chuck:  So she was wearing a pink jacket with a purple outfit.

Me:  Yes.  That must be why—the color coordination gods must have been sending me some kind of warning.  I won’t make that mistake again.

Chuck:  So did you pick it up?

Me:  No, they’re open until 9:30 tonight.  I can get it anytime.

Chuck:  Maybe you should just take the girls now and go get it.

Me:  There’s no rush.  I know where it is.  Crisis averted.  I think we can move back down to defcon 2.

Chuck:  So I can come home now?

Me:  Yeah, yeah…whatever.  I’ll see you later.  pause.  Thanks, sweetie.

Chuck:  Yep.

I managed to wait 1 hour and 9 minutes before throwing the kids in the car and heading down to the restaurant.  I had a nagging little thought in the back of my mind that there was still a possibility that it wasn’t actually BigHugs’s pink jacket.  I mean obviously from the conversation I had with the Kohl’s lady I should assume that there’s some kind of little girls losing pink jackets epidemic in our area—I should be careful not to count my jackets before they hatch.  But then I walked into the restaurant and Holy hot dog on a stick sweet mother moses, there it was!  I had it in my hot little hands!!!

And *sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifff* mmmmm….it smells like fajitas.