In-home Theater
She Who Hoardes Food
Ice, Ice, Baby
A Trip to Town
Crusty, Chapped, and Happy
A Little Bird Told Me
Saturday Shots 1.5
Let's Aim Low, Shall We?
My word. I have no idea why I'm in a funk, but irritating little things are just chapping me this week. I've gotta find a good salve for this before I'm blistered.
Take, for instance, the fact that boys are slobs.
I cleaned the kids bathroom today. Need I say more? I shouldn't have to, but I will. Is it really that difficult to get it in the toilet? I mean, the toilet is rather large. It fits an adult behiney quite nicely. Surely - surely - you can aim a tiny stream into that big water pit. I fail to see the difficulty of this, but I also fail the parts to try it myself. And since I can't understand how you can't NOT hit that, it's even more unfathomable how you can actually hit the wall beside the toilet, the trash can, the shower curtain, the door behind you... When.You.Are.Aiming.At.The.Big.Water.Pit.
Listen to me, and listen to me good. Peeing is not a contest, and you do not need to mark your territory. So help me, if I catch anyone purposely writing their name on the wall sans hands you'll never see the light of another room of the house. You will be condemned to live in your own squalor and filth. And don't think I won't do it.
You weren't raised in a barn.
You're Screws Are Loose
We bought Micah a Woody doll on EBay. The newest Woody came with a guitar that whistles, sings and plays music. This was an unexpected bonus because Micah loves music. A musical Woody is as good as it gets, man.
Except there was a problem. The guitar was permanently attached to Woody's hand. We pulled, we tried cutting, we hunted down nippers, we broke out the Ginsu, but alas nothing worked. In the end we were forced to take apart the guitar and see what we could do to dissect his hand from it's neck. This involved taking a few screws out of the back of the instrument. Once we got this done, and very nearly damaging the internal memory chip that made it play, I realized it did no good. It was sheer force and determination that allowed me to pull his hand free. And then we had to reassemble the guitar.
Becky took on this job. She sat patiently and put in each tiny little screw, turning the ridiculously small screwdriver between her fingers until they were all in place. Well, almost all of them.
"Mom, I'm missing a screw."
Well, I can't help with that.
"No, but you can get it from the counter for me."
And I thought, wow, she took that slam well. That was just no fun at all. So I got up and retrieved the screw for her. She thanked me for it and was nearly finished turning it in when she said, "Hey!" while laughing, albeit in a slightly insulted tone.
I rest my case.
It's Wednesday, People
Today was Steelers Wear day at Micah's school. I have this written on my calendar so that I would not forget. I was wearing my Steelers sweatshirt at the doctor's today when I realized that I didn't put Micah in his jersey. I'm a failure as a mom. The poor kid. But he did wear his Steelers coat today. Does that count?
Becky was declared good to go at the doctor. This is wonderful news, of course, but I feel as though I'm losing my ability to diagnose my own children. There were blisters on her tonsils. How can one misdiagnose that?! Still, I'm very glad that Becky does not have strep. Nor will she be spreading it amongst our ranks.
Last weekend we scored an indoor basketball thingy for the kids. (Hello, Craigslist!) Why did I not realize that the thingy was so big? What was I thinking? But boy-howdy do the kids love it. Okay, so do I. I spent half my evening in the basement shooting hoops and loving every minute of it. While I was there I rearranged the basement so as to make room for the stuff that we've accumulated. Wow. We've certainly accumulated some stuff. Funny how that happens.
Today I discovered that Febreeze makes a plug-in air freshener. We are Febreeze fanatics. Becky asked for Febreeze as a stocking stuffer, I kid you not. What's genius about this (besides the fun Febreeze scent continuously wafting through my house) is that it's actually 2 different cartridges of similar but different scents. It switches back and forth every so often so that your sniffer doesn't grow accustomed to the same fragrance. In short, it means that I'm smelling fresh every time I inhale. In our house, this is a new concept. It's nice, too.
Micah is the Air Hockey King. That boy loves the game, and his hand-eye coordination is incredible. I think his therapist would be thrilled nigh unto death. Also? He whooped me in a game tonight. I would be ashamed if I wasn't so proud.
I figured after yesterday's total WTH post, I'd do a Count Your Blessings post. Maybe I can do a weekly WTH/CYB feature. Or maybe not. I'm not one to follow rules, even my own.
What a Day
It's been one of those days. And apparently it's been Internet wide. It has officially been declared What the Heck Week by a bloggy friend. Actually, TrannyHead declared it WTF week but as this is a family-friendly blog, and I don't even swear, I've rechristened it.
What the Heck Week.
One of our corgis is limping. Like, WTH?! After shaving her leg and inspecting it closely, I saw a cut. Not deep, not big, not infected, not nasty looking, not go-to-the-vet bad. But she's limping. Let's hope it stays not-go-to-the-vet bad because it would be nice to get through my New Year's resolution for a whole month, no?
My Andis clippers aren't working well. I take good care of them, I lube them after every use, I haven't used them in forever. They're not working. WTH?! I can't afford to replace them right now. Or get new blades. It took 5 minutes to shave a quarter sized spot off the dog's leg.
The acid reflux is back with a vengeance. In fact, after downing half a bottle of antacid liquid and a pill, I ended up vomiting after a coughing spree. WTH?! Not fun, people. Not fun.
Becky came home from school with blisters on her tonsils. While it was late afternoon, the doctor said there was no way they could get us in until tomorrow. WTH?! We're small town, people. There's always space for emergencies. Who here doesn't think strep isn't an emergency? Why would you not give a child meds, but instead make her suffer through the night with it? WTH?!
The Virgin Mary is now the Prodigal. We have a nativity set for the kids to play with (because what better thing is there for the kids to play with at Christmas?) and when we packed up the Christmas Crazy, she was missing. We searched high, we searched low, we searched in the toy box and in the dog kennels. Mary was not to be found. After rearranging the living room this week we found her hiding under the sofa. WTH? Mary? Are you and Joseph on the outs?
Somehow, someway, something spilled inside the oven door and besmirched the glass. WTH?! There is no way for me to clean this, and it drives me iNsAnE. If I completely dismantled the entire door, it may come clean. But are they meant to be dismantled? Would I break something? Would it hold heat after that or would some seal be broken that should never have been? How did something get between the glass?!
I've been desperately trying to lose a few extra pounds. They've been accumulating since I birthed our first child nearly 14 years ago, and quite frankly I'm tired of them. They need evicted. I've dieted with success, but then those pesky pounds find me and bring friends to celebrate the reunion. I figure this time I'm just eating smarter. Sure, it'll take sooooo much longer, but hopefully it'll stay off. I lost 5 pounds since Christmas. I was kinda pleased with myself. I gained 6 pounds in 2 days when we were in Pittsburgh. WTH?! It's just not fair.
I cannot get gloves to fit. When it "fits like a glove" the thumb is always too long. It's taken me these many years to figure out that I apparently have short thumbs. WTH? Is this a sign of lesser reasoning powers to figure things like this out?
WTH? Who lets their child eat out of a peanut butter jar with a spoon? On the living room floor? Oh, wait, that would be me. Yeh, it's been one of those days.
The Classic Double Standard
In our great quest to parent these children that we've brought into the world, we keep experimenting with various methods of incentives, punishments, and such like. One of these things (that we were totally unaware of doing) is comparison.
Let me just say that I know that you shouldn't compare your kids with other people's kids. If Little Johnny cuts his first tooth at age 3.5 months, I refrain from a) spazzing out on Little Johnny's mom because that's just freaky and b) saying that "yeh, well, my Becky has TWO just on the verge of breaking through. She may be later in actual cutting, but she'll have twice as many when she does." That's just not good parenting. Plus, it's stressful because we all know that worrying about things that I can't control is just making me old before my time.
I'm talking comparing as in, "You're not the only teenaged girl in America without a cell phone. Your cousin does not have one, and neither does your friend, Bertha." We were called on this by our own daughter. She claimed that it was NOT FAIR because we're comparing her to others. We didn't realize that we were doing this on such a widescale field, but apparently we were. I've been trying to make a conscious attempt to not compare. Instead, I just say, "I'm your mother." There's something she can't argue with.
But today she turned the tables on me. She asked if we could get a radio for the shower. Always hesitant to say "Yes, whatever you want, dear!" I instead asked, "why?"
"Well, my cousin and my friend Bertha each have one and they are allowed to be in the shower for the length of two songs. Maybe we could do that."
My first thought was, "Oh, she has a couple of nerves to compare herself to her friends like that." My second thought was, "hmmmm, maybe I should get one because it is a good idea. It would certainly cut down on the water wastage going on around here. And there's always the perk that will come with it. I can start comparing again, because she did it."
I'm thinking for her birthday she may be getting a radio for the shower. I'll relish saying, "just don't forget, your cousin and your friend Bertha only get two songs. You will now, too."
Don't Play With Your Food
Micah somehow, somewhere got the idea that he can buy something every time I am at a checkout counter. His two choices are either a Hershey bar or a bag of Doritos. He knows the good stuff.
So we're at Wal-Mart yesterday and he chose a Hershey bar. Bless his dear little heart, he won't ever try to sneak one over on me. He always waves it in my face, clearly asking if he can have it. And most times he waits until I tell him before he tries scanning it himself. After I bag it, he has to go look in the bag to be sure it's there because sometimes, mysteriously, that candy bar vanishes somewhere between him handing it to me and it actually getting bagged. When he sees it in there, he looks at me and grins.
Yes, I am buying smiles from my children. Is it all that wrong?
Yesterday he took his chocolate from the bag and played with it while I finished checking out. He'd gotten a Big Block Bar for once, and I remember thinking, "Oooh, there's enough for me to share." He and his Big Block Bar were entertaining themselves grandly. He slid it along the checkout counter. He shoved it off the end and let it fall onto the floor. And repeated. And again. Oooh, how fun. It smacks on the floor like a belly flop every single time! He got overcome with his success and hugged it tightly in both hands. Actually it looked like he was choking it. The thing kinda scrunched up in his grip. I kinda cringed, thinking of the chocolate bits that would fall out and be lost forever when I gently opened the wrapper.
He grabbed one end of the candy bar and waved it frantically up and down. Since it was broken in the middle the other end merrily flapped away. He found this highly amusing. He wiggled it this way and that, banged it against the shopping cart, slapped it off the conveyor belt, slammed it on the floor.
The cashier was watching with something like amused horror on her face. I was thinking, "so much for sharing. There won't even be crumbs left to lick when he's done with it."
When we packed the groceries in the van and Micah was strapped in, he asked me to open his candy. I carefully peeled back a small corner and prepared to catch the chocolate dust that fell out. Those Big Block Bars are made of stiffer stuff than an average candy bar. It was only in three pieces and not so much damaged after all. I handed him a few squares and tucked the rest into my purse. There was no way that I was going to let him eat that much at once, and certainly not in my van. Any parent knows that kids and chocolate cant' be trusted together.
Today I was cleaning out my purse and found the remains of the chocolate bar. Total score. And totally shameless that I ate it.
Boys vs. Girls, Teenage Edition
Becky told me that she needed new razors the next time I was in town. We were discussing what brands and styles we like best when Josh walked in. (I know you're jealous of the deep and spiritual conversations that I have with my daughter. Don't try to hide it.)
Josh, bless his heart, is a pre-adolescent boy. He's starting to learn about the world around him, but in a strictly boy kind of way. To him, it's all about flexing and flatulating, food and fun, and the all new world of experimenting with deodorant, hair products and cologne. Shaving is something he dreams of doing someday.
So you can imagine his shock and awe when he heard that Becky shaves. "You shave?" he asked incredulously.
Becky answered, "Uh, yeh." *insert much eye rolling* "Girls shave their legs and pits."
Josh couldn't believe that his sister beat him to the hair growing punch. "Lucky! You get armpit hair."
"Yeh, Josh. That's what I've always dreamed of." We nearly drowned in her sarcasm.
Next Year For Christmas I Want A Maid
I love me some Christmas Crazy. In case you missed all that, I'm sorry. You must have passed out for the holidays. We're glad you're back.
But it's the aftermath of Christmas that I'm not so very fond of. I think this year my subconscious caught on to what goes down. Most years I get antsy to put the holiday cheer away shortly after January arrives. This year? It was just last week that I finally dismantled, packed and stored yet another holiday.
I'm guessing that I'm not the only one whose house doesn't miraculously become bigger when a tree is suddenly erected in the living room. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to have extra space at the happiest time of the year. It would add to the festivities, I'm sure. But instead, I'm forced to just keep adding more and more stuff into the same exact space that stuff wasn't in before Christmas came along. This makes things a bit more crowded, of course. And then add to the mix the stream of friends and family that come and go during the season of extra and you start to feel claustrophobic. That's why I generally can't wait to put the stuf away once January rolls around.
And then there's that strange phenomenon of "cleanliness inspires cleaning." You know the routine. You see something that you absolutely cannot overlook, like spilled Kool-Aid on the kitchen floor. You are forced to wipe it up. But while you're down there you realize that the floor is so much dirtier than you pretended it was, and you feel shamed into sweeping. But while you're doing this you realize that the cobwebs in the corner have now gathered dust, thereby making themselves noticeable, and you have to suck them out of existence. And when you're that close to the walls you see how dirty they really are, and you're inspired to scrub them down. But what are clean walls if the doorjambs and doors are dirty? So you wipe them, too. And then you realize that you can't even see out the windows so you break out the Windex. Next thing you know you've wasted a whole day and got nothing done.
You see why I ignore dirt? It just causes more work when you acknowledge it's presence.
But in January, I clean. Once the Christmas Crazy is put away I realize that the dust has collected for a month while I couldn't actually see the furniture for all the extra stuff lined up on it. The dust bunnies are fully grown and reproducing. And the mess in the area where the tree was is of immense proportions. It's horrid. The dust, and needles, and bits of wrap, and crumbs. (Seriously. Crumbs. What the heck?!) And when I push the furniture back to where it belongs I realize that the baseboards are now dingy with dust.
I am forced to clean after Christmas, and my brain finally caught on to this. For the last two days I've been in a cleaning frenzy. You want to know what's discouraging? You can't even tell. *sigh*
Can I have a maid?
Another Year Younger
My mother in law reminded me recently that my birthday was coming up. Yep, it sure is. "So, you're going to be 39 this year, huh?" Yep, I sure am.
Wow. Thirty-nine. How did that happen? Age has a way of just creeping up on you. I don't really mind getting old, but I don't even remember how I got here all of a sudden. I mean, next year I'll be 40. Forty! *sigh*
And then Sam said, "No, you'll be 38 on your birthday."
No, dear. I'll be 39. And you will, too, at your birthday in May.
"Uh, no, I'll be 38 like you. What year were you born?"
1971. Give me a minute. Oh. Hey! I'll be 38 this year! Well, that's kind of nice to lose a year for once.
Happy birthday to me. I'm another year younger.
The Weekend Away
Sam and I had a very enjoyable few days in the city, thanks for asking. Here's what I learned.
* Just because I buy a new Steelers sweatshirt to wear into the city on game weekend doesn't mean that I fit in. I chose to wear mine Saturday rather than Friday. Turns out, Friday was the city-wide, standard pre-game pep rally. Durrrrhhhhh. I'm always so out of the loop.
* If you don't need to go into a store for anything, don't. I knew this, and yet I went into Ikea "just to look." While we scored some incredible finds, we spent a small fortune there. Ouch.
* When you get the idea to re-do this, or make that, write it down. You've no idea how often I've seen something in a store and said, "hey! I can make that!" and then promptly forgot it. So in the interest of not forgetting, I've vowed to make curtains for the breakfast nook and a shower curtain for our bath. Maybe a valance in there like those cute little numbers at the hotel would look good, too. And while I'm at it, could I possibly get around to the sheers for the living room? Oh, and that Steelers shirt that Micah is outgrowing? Remember that cute purse you saw that woman carrying into Target made from an old jersey? Yeh, that, too.
* Barnes & Noble really does know how to hold a sale. I didn't know. I only wish that I'd have gotten more. Very little kaching is a good thing.
* When checking into a hotel and you're surrounded by businessmen in suits, refrain from making the statement, "I'm here purely for pleasure." It just doesn't sound so good.
* King size beds are very nice. I'm just saying.
* Nobody makes a burger like Fuddruckers. *sigh*
* Even though I managed to hose up the Wearing of the Black and Gold, the Steelers done us proud anyway. I did wear the sweatshirt to church to make up for my obvious blunder. In fact, our whole family dressed in our Sunday best for the day.
Saturday Shots 1.3
Micah helps set the table. I'll bet you're wishing that you could eat with us on a regular basis, aren't you?
The Christmas Crazy, boxed and ready to be stored for another year. By the time we hauled it all to the attic I was really glad that it doesn't have to be messed with again for almost a year.
The glow of the ski resort on the mountain. After skiing hours the mountain top is covered in a fog from all the snow making going on. I think of it as the City on a Hill. It's kind of ironic that none of us ski.
The yard lights, snowed over.
Yum, turkey.
Pass The Coffee, Er, I Mean the Ball
I am not into sports. Shocking as this may be to some, it's the truth. I enjoyed basketball and volleyball in high school, and played with some skill, too. But that's as far as it went. I never played anything even remotely organized, I didn't join leagues on weekends (do they have things like that?), and I didn't randomly shoot hoops around the house. In fact, I don't think we even had a basketball at home when we were growing up. I was all about the equine. I lived my life in the stable, and was just as happy shoveling muck as I was riding.
My children are just that. They have inherited my complete and utter lack of sportiness. Sam finds this a wee bit disappointing, but gamely tries making up for it by saying that he didn't get into his sports groove until he was in his teen years.
We have a daughter in her teen years and she has even less of a desire to try out for a team now than she did when she was 5. At 5 she played soccer, and watched the clouds blow across the sky while the ball rolled right past her feet. That's my girl.
Josh is making more of an effort. He loves golf and will take his clubs out and routinely lose balls in the field throughout the summer. He plays AYSO in the spring/summer and is making a grand effort at playing the game. Bless his heart, he too is my child.
This year Josh decided to play basketball. I signed him up for the clinics on Saturdays to learn the game before sending him on the traveling team. There are a lot of kids at these Saturday events so he's not the only one who needs to learn how to play the game. This is good for the self esteem.
His, not mine.
My self esteem is not helped at all by the 8:00 AM Saturday meetings. It appears that I'm the only slacker who sleeps in until the last possible moment, throws on acceptable clothing, slaps a little makeup on to hide the sleep wrinkles, and dons a hat to hide the bedhead. Everyone else? Shows up bright eyed and bushy tailed, coffee in one hand and their child's water bottle in the other, and camps there for the 2 hour duration. I leave my child at the mercy of his instructor because 2 hours allows me time to get a whole lot done at home before I have to run down to the school to pick him up again.
I'm just wondering why they had to schedule this at 8 in the AM, every Saturday for 10 weeks. I'm so not into sports.
Let's Call It Team Pride, Okay?
I've never been high maintenance. Ever. Even in the 80's when big hair was in that took 2 hours and 3 cans of AquaNet to create, I totally cheated and only spent 30 minutes and about 8 seconds worth of spray. There was that time right at the end of high school, and then college, when I really made an effort at looking nice when I went somewhere. I even started wearing make-up. Not shockingly, that's when I met and snagged Sam.
I have to wonder if he's been sorely disappointed with the Me that he married. I tried keeping up appearances for a few years after we were married. But with each new child I slipped a little more. Now? I've been known to wear just about anything into town. Matching is optional. Clean is a state of mind. Comfy is where it's at. There are days that the inner me even hangs it's head in shame, while the outer me walks through Wal-Mart blending in with the rest of the crowd.
I blame a lot of this on where we live. When people wear curlers to the store and don't even feel the need to put their teeth in, you know it's low-class. But every now and then I manage to break out of Hicksville and get to a city. This weekend, we're heading to Pittsburgh. Traditionally, when I head to the city for a weekend, I try to dress nicely. Sometimes I even go so far so to wear khakis instead of jeans.
Every year when we book our weekend in Pittsburgh, there happens to be a Steelers game going on. Anyone who knows anything about football knows that the Steelers Nation supports it's team. I am the only person in the entire city not sporting the word STEELERS across my chest. There was that one year when I thought that I would be lynched as a traitor. I was rather afraid for my life.
I have a Steelers sweatshirt, but it falls under the category of the oversized top. It's faded, sloppy and ragged. I cannot wear this with pride into the City of the Steelers.
People, I'm heading into the city this weekend and have the opportunity to dress up and enjoy a few days on the town. I am in search of the perfect wardrobe to pack.
I bought a new Steelers sweatshirt.
The Conspiracy Theory
Sam and I are cheap. We may not be the cheapest people on Planet Earth, but we're definitely in the running. We choose to live on one income in a two income world, and for that reason alone we have need to be frugal. But raising 4 kids on one income makes being cheap a necessity born of the need to survive.
One of the things that we've chosen to do without is pay-for television. And I'm not talking Pay-Per-View. I'm talking cable, satellite, and anything other than the basic "put the rabbit ears in the attic and hope for the weather to cooperate" stations that we usually get. A few times over the years we've said how nice it would be to have this channel or that (hello, HGTV), and we've even gone so far as to look into pricing. But we just can't get by the fact that we'd have to pay to watch television. I'd feel the need to get my money's worth out of it and would have that thing on 24/7, thereby upping my electric bill, diminishing what I get done through the day (why have the TV on if you're not watching it?), and turning my already questionable mind to mush. So we have our basic local channels, and we're happy.
Until now. Leave it up to the government to step in and tell us that we have to get cable or we can't watch anything. What's next, telling us that if we don't dust the furniture weekly they'll confiscate the kids because of a health danger? (And if you're a Hattie Housekeeper, how about not making me feel guilty over that, okay?)
So we're taking the plunge. We called our local cable company and asked to be included in their ever-growing number of subscribers. At the end of this month we, too, will have more channels than we can possibly watch, and still complain that nothing is on TV.
We caved. I feel like I've lost a battle somehow.
And just to rub salt in the wound, not only did the government make us eat mac-n-cheese a few extra nights to pay for The Box so that our TV would work after the Great Changeover, then confiscate our "hey, let's eat out" money on a monthly basis so that we can afford cable TV, now they're pushing back the date for the great changeover. Because the government ran out of money they can postpone things. What if I run out of money? What do I get to postpone?
Yeh, I'm a little bitter that I was forced to do something against my free will. But I'll have HGTV, so there's that.
Have I Mentioned That I'm At The Vet's A Lot?
Last week there was a school delay, and the vet's girls called and asked if they could catch the bus here since their parents had to go to work early. (Our kids ride the same bus.)
My vet (the girls' dad) happened to mention to them on the way to my house that he hadn't seen my puppies in a while. So they asked Becky if he and I saw a lot of each other. (That sounded a bit like he was in the habit of just stopping in after work, which would be kinda awkward, dontcha think?) But I listened to the story.
Becky said, "Um, your dad is our vet. When we have puppies, mom takes them in about every week, so he sees a them a lot."
Okay, for the record, I do not take puppies in every week. It was just that one litter. And yes, they were there every week for 6 weeks, but it was just that one litter in 10 years of raising dogs. Really. But it was the last litter we had, so apparently it's fresh in Becky's mind, as well as the vet's.
So his girls said, "Wouldn't it be cool if my dad and your mom had an affair? Then we'd be like sisters. That would be great."
Okay, I know that I said I wasn't going to make New Year's resolutions, but I am anyway. My resolution? Try not to see the vet so often, it's starting rumors in the community.
Geez. This is not good, people.
Freezing
So we have this refrigerator/freezer thing in our kitchen, okay? And ever since we got it, it's been nothing but a hunk of faux stainless junk. If we could afford it, we'd recycle it's metal parts for a few bucks. From the get-go, the ice maker was a problem. It doesn't seem to take the job of making ice seriously. The ice bin is always full to overflowing, right up until the time we actually need ice. Like at dinnertime. Every day. One person fills their glass with ice, and the rest of us get leftover slivers of frozen remains. We're not talking about major parties where we have people in and out all day, filling glass after ice-cold glass, thereby straining the ice making mechanics to their limits. No, we're talking about filling more than a glass a day with ice. It's such a failure.
And then there was the squealing motor episode. When it felt the need to cool itself, it also felt the need to not only let us know, but the entire neighborhood as well. It's a whiner like that. The high pitched squeal was finally fixed with a replacement part in the mail and a few hours worth of cussing and knuckle scraping by my Sam.
But recently our fridge/freezer thing has hatched a new problem. For several weeks now the freezer has been icing itself shut. And leaking water on the floor. This is not good. Today Sam had enough and tore it apart to get to the source of the problem.
Apparently the self-defrost drain filled with water and froze. Who knows why or how this happened, but it did. And now when it self defrosts, it just leaks out the door and freezes inside into a huge mess. The only thing to do about this is to thaw that drain out. This involves unplugging the fridge and pouring hot water into the tiny pinhole of a drain hoping to thaw out an entire pipe before the food all thaws.
Yeh.
So we've got this all over the kitchen.
I heated water and poured into the hole, a few drops at a time, all afternoon until it was time to leave for drum lessons. I was gone a few hours with the trip to the store and all, and it was still not thawed when I came back. The food, however, was beginning to soften around the edges. Except the peas, which were turning to mush.
I'm kinda grateful that it's January in Pennsylvania at this point. This is our new freezer compartment.
The stuff stacked on the new freezer is to keep the neighborhood dogs out of it overnight. I have no idea what to do with the food in the fridge. One cannot deep freeze eggs with any kind of success. Mental note, we are never buying another Samsung refrigerator. Ever. In fact, we may never buy another Samsung anything after this. I wonder if they'll reimburse us for the groceries that will surely be lost? Now that the price of gas has dropped, apparently the grocery stores have decided to take up the slack. Like feeding a family of 6 doesn't hurt enough, they've raised the cost of bread and milk. Again.
On the plus side today, Micah got a new Woody in the mail. At least someone is having a good day.
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And in other news, today is National Delurking Day. It was brought to my attention by fellow bloggers (because I'm never in the know about things), and it was also stated that if someone created a button, it must be obeyed. Delurk, readers! We'd love to meet you.
Some People Are More Stupider Than Others
My sister-in-law gave me some canned dog food. It came with the warning that it made her dog gassy. As in, clear the room and declare it a nuclear war zone kind of gassy. I reassured her that we have outside dogs and we could really care less what they smell like.
So I brought that stuff home and set it out to remind myself to feed it to them. And then, as I sat there and looked at it, I got to thinking. Everyone's digestive tract is different, right? I mean, just because it made one very geriatric dog gassy doesn't mean it's going to make every dog gassy. And our dogs are young and healthy. Plus, they're used to having a variety of foods tossed their way. Or left laying by Micah. Our dogs take their jobs as food vacuums seriously around here. Like the 1 pound bag of pepperoni that was inhaled by the dogs. And that had no effect on their gastric system whatsoever.
So I did the unthinkable. I opened that can of canned dog food. The smell was like pure heaven to a dog (kinda like road kill on a hot summer day) and they came running from the far corners of the house. I had to fight them back so that I could put it in their bowl. They were kind enough to share without snarling at each other, but the price they pay for that is scarfing and swallowing so as to get the most possible food that they can.
Well, they loved it. But I had no doubt that they would. I opened the door and invited them to go play outside for a while, just in case something unpleasant really did happen. I'm not stupid, you know.
I know you can see where this is going.
Those dogs weren't inside 45 seconds before I noticed one of them eating something off the floor. It looked exactly like the dog food that I fed them, chunks and all. I was horrified that they were eating it, but figured if they were that dumb it was one less mess for me to clean up. Why yes, I did just walk away and let them finish the job. But don't worry, I scrubbed the spot with ammonia when they were done.
Let this be a lesson to you. When someone gives you warning about something, believe them. Don't try to prove anything yourself. The smell is still lingering, and that's been a few hours. I think the inventor of canned dog food didn't even like dogs and was trying to punish the owners.
Iced Over
When an ice storm has the decency to melt within 24 hours, it's one of the prettiest things you'll ever see. This one was a winner.
Wanted
The good news is that the hands-down favorite A#1 Woody of all time has been found.
Let's all take a moment to rejoice together.
I asked around at church (again) on Wednesday night and some kids remembered that Micah was out on the playground Sunday morning. (The next question is obviously, where were Micah's parents?) They happily ran out to check and there was our favorite cowboy of all time, iced fast to the ground, frozen into a shape that truly resembled this:
But being made of more than just fabric and stuffing, the cowboy merely considered it a cold shower and has made a full recovery. Micah is one happy little boy. And that is the understatement that will never be topped in 2009.
But I still am down a Second Best B#2 Woody, and that means that our Favorite Cowboy cannot go into retirement as planned. I don't want him to fall apart, or get lost again. His sentimental value is rising daily.
Here's the deal. I need a backup Woody. Or several. Micah managed to lose two Woodys in a week, and although that's an unheard-of record in the last 5 years, who's to say that it won't happen again? So I'm here to play Let's Make a Deal. I want your old, discarded, so-not-played-with-anymore Woody dolls. Well used and worn is perfectly acceptable. In fact, preferrable. Trust me.
I am willing to offer just compensation for your cowboy, too. If anyone has a Woody that they would love to share with Micah, I will make your child (or you!) a shirt. It's not much, but it's what I've got to offer.
The happiness of a 5 year old boy is at stake.
Ralph
When we have puppies, I generally prefer not to name them. Strange as it sounds, if they dont' have individual names it's easier to think of them as a litter rather than puppies with their own personalities. And this makes it easier to see them leave after 8+ weeks of caring for them.
I know this is stupid. And I know that it's full of holes. I know this because each litter has a puppy that stands out as the leader of the pack, a puppy that hangs back and waits until someone else tries it first, a puppy that will run away out of sheer defiance and love of freedom, and a puppy that will never leave your side because of it's inherited loyalty. These puppies make it impossible to think of them as just one of the pack. So I inevitably end up naming them anyway.
Ralph is a popular name around here. I generally call the stinker of the bunch Ralph. Don't ask me why, it just happens. Fred is reserved for the one that sits in the corner waiting for someone else to go first. He's a wimp. This works well for me when these respective puppies (from every litter) are boys. If they're girls they generally end up with the misfortune of being called Ralph and Fred anyway.
You wanna know what's ironic? I just bought a dog named Ralph. Now what am I gonna name that puppy from each litter that is so precocious and headstrong?
Domestic Help Is Overrated
Any mom knows that help around the house is always appreciated. I do not discourage my children from housework. Ever. If they want to take a turn vacuuming (for instance), I relenquish control and let them play. Sure, they may not get anything clean, but I don't want them to associate the vacuum as something negative.
So today the kids were off school today, courtesy of the ice storm.
And I had lots of help from Micah. He wanted to use Mr. Dyson first. He sucked up a drum stick with the hose. How does one do that?
I shuffled some laundry because it's a never-ending job here, much like it is at your place, I'm sure. Micah loves helping with the laundry. The super-cool front-loading washer has fun buttons right there on the front, that light up and glow in the dark. I'm out of the habit of using the child lock option now that Micah is in school.
He turned the washer off mid-cycle. I had to start it all over again. The one downfall with that wonder-machine is that it has a 2 hour run time. Now it was more like 3 hours. It's no wonder laundry is never-ending here. By the time a wash cycle is done, and I remember to change it, I only get 2 loads done per day, tops.
A day's chores aren't complete without helping with the puppies. This includes spreading papers all over the floor (not the kennel) and taking pictures. But picture taking tends to get out of hand.
It's incredibly sad that my 5 year old's photos are so much better than most of the ones that I take. Maybe I should put him in charge of the Canon in the future.
And yes, it's still Christmas Wonderland here.
Let's Sleep On It
We've been through so much with Micah, medically speaking, that sometimes we almost forget that there are other kids here to worry about. We're so grateful that we can forget about them in that aspect. Healthy kids are wonderful to have. I'm just saying.
My mom just brought to my attention the fact that Luke does strange things in his sleep. This makes me feel guilty, as a mom, because I should be in the know about things like this. The sad fact is that since I've become a mom I've learned to sleep through just about everything.
I know this sounds contradictory to my mom-status, but it's true. Mind you, if I have a sick child I can hear them breathing all night long at the other end of the hallway in their own bedroom with the door closed. But if I am not aware that a child is sick, they can barf up supper and part of lunch all over their bed, on the steps and down the hall to the bathroom and I am none the wiser. I have to be in the know before I can tell my subconscience to be on alert while I sleep. Many has been the night that I have been awakened by a child that just told me that I have a mess to clean up. Not a fun way to be awakened, let me tell you.
So that is why I was not aware that Luke had a problem. Apparently, he seems to suddenly sit up, gasp for air, and then lay back down and sleep soundly before repeating the said behavior over and over all night. How have I missed this kind of stuff? Josh even verified that Luke does, indeed, sit up and breathe heavily a lot at night. They share a room; he'd know.
So tonight I conducted an experiment. After Luke was asleep I listened to him breathing for well over an hour. He couldn't be any more normal. I know for a fact that once I fall asleep I'll be out for the night because my subconscious mom-dar will not pick up on someone sitting up and laying back down. I'm the one who sleeps through the bedside phone ringing, my husband going to work in the wee smalls of the night, returning hours later, then being called out again. I frequently get glared at when I ask him if it was a quiet night, when in reality he got 25 minutes of sleep total.
Sam is suggesting a sleep study. If the poor kid is suffering from apnea in a big-time way, and I as a mom am failing to pick up on it, something needs to be done about it. Maybe I'll have to pull an all-nighter just to watch my boy sleep. I only fear that I'd join him in slumber land. I'm a stellar mom that way.
MIA
Woody is missing.
I was so sure that Micah took his best friend to our friend's house for the New Year's Eve celebration, and when we couldn't find it the next day and Micah was tearing the house apart looking for him, I pulled the old one from retirement. Micah was thrilled because that was his hands-down favorite A#1 Woody of all time. The one he lost was his second-best B#2 Woody.
I figured that my friend would bring Woody to church on Sunday and all would be right with the world, but she did not. Sundays can be crazy with kids (she has 4 also) so chances of her forgetting are great. (Although she's way more organized than I am.)
Micah took his pulled-from-retirement favorite A#1 Woody to church with him and left Woody there. Sunday afternoon I called my friend to see if B#2 Woody surfaced at her house after the party. She keeps a neat house and actually cleans under her kids beds on a regular basis (I know! Can you believe it?!) and said Woody was not there. Drat. So Micah spent Sunday Woody-less.
I scoured the church from front to back and top to bottom Sunday evening. I questioned people in the know as well as innocent bystanders. Some had spotted Woody with Micah's shoes by the bookshelves. (Micah does not seem to be a huge fan of footwear, and feels at home enough in church to toss the shoes aside.) My kids confirmed that they had last spotted Woody there also. Someone put Micah's shoes on him and we all left. Not until we came home did we realize that Woody was MIA. And he was not found in church either.
I am thinking that he was kidnapped. People, I am willing to pay a ransom to get at least one Woody back. And some kid had to be all kinds of desperate to take the hands-down favorite A#1 Woody because that poor cowboy looked like he was drug by his horse for several miles and hadn't bathed in over a year. (He's just stained people. He gets washed regularly. He has the threadbare vest, faded face paint, and bleached jeans to prove it.)
It's been a sad few days in the Rocking Pony household without a favorite Woody to play with. I'm desperately bidding on Ebay to get Micah a new best friend. Despite the fact that there are 4 more Woodys here, none of them are up to Micah's standards. It's gotta be a special kind of Woody to pass the test, and while they're not hard to find, we don't have one on hand.
I'm just as sad as Micah is to have lost that hands-down favorite. That was one special cowboy doll. It was a definite memory-box keeper.
Rest in peace, cowboy. May someone love you as much as Micah did.
Time Out!
Did you ever have one of those weeks where the weight of the world seems to rest on your shoulders? Where even if it's not happening to you and your family, it feels personal anyway? Where you just wish that time could turn back and everything could be alright again?
That's where I seem to be. It's a heavy way to start a new year, so the plus is that it's only gonna get better. We're healthy, we have each other, and we're a family full of love. We're so blessed. And yet there is so much hurt and chaos all around us. It's hard to not be affected by it.
You'll forgive me if I take a few days here and there when I need time to process things. My mind is preoccupied elsewhere and that leaves very little left over for blogging. If only my mind was as sharp as it once was, but alas I think childbirth has taken it's permanent toll.
I'm just trying to be prepared for what the future might hold.
It's Kinda Cheesy
We were riding in the van and Josh is just singing at the top of his lungs, "Cheeeeesiiiiiiing down the highway..."
What?
Cheesing down the highway.
What are you singing?!
The Harley Davidson ad on the radio.
Um, that's Chasing Down the Highway.
Oh.
Which just goes to prove that everything in a boy's mind is related to bodily functions.
It's All Fun and Games
What better way to start out the new year than with some fun? Everyone could use a good laugh after stupidly staying up waaaay too late on New Year's Eve and then getting up waaaaay too early on New Year's Day with the kids.
This cracks me up. I would actually love to have these ice molds because my kids would find them hysterical. And I could scare the bejeebers out of Becky with them. She's fun like that. But think what a riot these would be at your next office party.
Forget the Flushmaster 2000. It's all about the Aquariass. I keep wondering what happens to the fish when you flush. It's probably a good thing that all drains lead to the ocean. Honestly, wouldn't this be kind of fun to have? I'd consider it self cleaning, too. That makes it even better.
Fling Spoons are what everyone needs. I have no idea why they were invented, but their food fighting capabilities are rivaled by none. And they come in a variety of fun colors. Load the mashed potatoes, and call dibs on the last dinner roll.>
This gives all new meaning to the phrase Hot Dog! Hero will be your new best friend, because everyone loves a dinner of dogs so well that they want to invest in the in-home doggie grill. He is cute, though. I'll give him that. And it would be fun to use. Okay, I want one. I admit it. Are you happy?
There is so much wrong with the Hands Free Urinal, where to begin? If men are trying to avoid washing after using the facilities, I think it's a fail. Let's just hope that the helpful hand doesn't malfunction and accidentally neuter someone. I'm just saying.
This must be ever so helpful for the local street gangs. I mean, think what they could get done if they didn't have to lug around the boom boxes on their shoulders. Their hands would now be free to actually pull up their pants. That would be nice, no? I'm just wondering what these shoes will do to the rap/dance movement. What with all the jostling from merely walking you've gotta have quite a skip in the music. "Yo, Leo! You stand still so we can get down!"
Isn't the internet just the most fun when you need some cheap entertainment?
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