I have spent the day getting my house ready for company.
Granted it's family, but still it's probably best not to have them show up to two-day old pb&j spots on the kitchen floor, piles of clean laundry on the sofa, and a dress-up bin that looks like it formed some kind of suicide-bomb pact with the transformers bucket wherein they blew themselves up in the playroom . . . which, unfortunately, also happens to be the guest room.
I know, it sounds too good to be true, right? It's sort of like Disneyland. But not.
But, seriously, life as a house-guest in a home with more kids than adults doesn't have to be all bad. If you're ever a guest at my house, here are a few pieces of advice I hope will make your stay as stress-free as possible:
1. Yes, those are dinosaur sheets on your bed, but hey, at least they're clean dinosaur sheets. That's more than I can say for my own bed.
2. If you're looking for 27-grain whole wheat bread and chickpeas in the pantry, don't fret. Just look behind the juice boxes, Spiderman mac-n-cheese, and graham crackers shaped like bumblebees. You'll find them.
3. Be careful getting out of bed during the night. Your room is also the playroom which houses approximately six billion and five tiny leggos. They hurt when you step on them, so I recommend using a night light. And shoes.
4. Don't be a towel snob. A piece of terrycloth is a piece of terrycloth, and if it happens to be shaped like a butterfly, it will still get you dry.
5. If you plan to sleep in, I recommend earplugs. Made by NASA.
6. Check the toilet seat before you sit down. I have boys. If they didn't put the seat down, don't worry, it could be worse. It could mean that they never lifted the seat, in which case there was almost definitely major splashage. Just check the seat.
I hope these tips will make your stay as relaxing as if you'd won an all-expenses paid cruise to Atlantis with a stop at day spa on the way and a wine-tasting on the way back.
If not, feel free to ask for a full refund.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
This just in . . .
I've always been a newspaper junkie. In Georgia, I would always read the front page first, followed by the letters to the editor, the editorial columns, and the local news, in that order. (If you live in my hometown, and you're in need of a reason to get up every morning, start reading the letters to the editor. You'll realize that the world truly needs you. If you're an idiot, your letter will fit right in, and if you're not, it will be a welcome - though far less entertaining - addition.)
Sadly, the town we live in now is not large enough to require a daily paper, so I must settle for a weekly read. Every Wednesday I head to the store for my news fix, but my reading routine has been completely altered by my discovery of the crime section.
Yes, tinytown's* paper has a crime section titled "State Police Log" because not only does it report on crime in our town, but in all of the neighboring buroughs and townships. (You know how I love those words.)
Here for your enjoyment are some of the newsworthy items in this week's crime section. (I have copied these verbatim, so don't shoot the messenger for the punctuation choices. The additional quotes are things quoted in the reports.)
A Township: Police report they are investigating an act of scattering rubbish on private property located on MH road. Police reported JRG, 43, is the accused and reported that he "deposited on the land of another household rubbish."
K Townships: State Police have charged KWC with summary disorderly conduct. According to police, C "is alleged to have moved a large pile of dirt and rocks from the roadside onto the roadway of the UBS Road."
R Township: The theft of a prescription bottle, that contained over the counter medication, from a residence located on 3rd Street, is under investigation by State Police. According to police, on September 6 between 1-9:30 pm someone "entered the residence of SCH and stole the medication from the medicine cabinet."
R Township: A burglary at the residence of CC is under investigaion by State Police. According to police, on September 17 between 6:30-9:15 pm someone entered her home and "scattered cigarettes throughout the residence floor . . . (and) also used the cigarettes to spell vulgar words on the floor."
H Township: State Police report they "recovered a bicycle" on X Road.
Two more reports involve people "discovered to have been trespassing on posted private property."
The moral of the story, I guess, is don't move to R township any time soon because there is apparently a crime spree underway right now with two crimes in one week. Residents, lock your medicine cabinets.
And while you're at it, put your cigarettes in there.
* Note to residents of tinytown: I refer to the town I live in as tinytown to avoid broadcasting my whereabouts to the world wide web, not for deragatory purposes. Try not to be offended.
Sadly, the town we live in now is not large enough to require a daily paper, so I must settle for a weekly read. Every Wednesday I head to the store for my news fix, but my reading routine has been completely altered by my discovery of the crime section.
Yes, tinytown's* paper has a crime section titled "State Police Log" because not only does it report on crime in our town, but in all of the neighboring buroughs and townships. (You know how I love those words.)
Here for your enjoyment are some of the newsworthy items in this week's crime section. (I have copied these verbatim, so don't shoot the messenger for the punctuation choices. The additional quotes are things quoted in the reports.)
A Township: Police report they are investigating an act of scattering rubbish on private property located on MH road. Police reported JRG, 43, is the accused and reported that he "deposited on the land of another household rubbish."
K Townships: State Police have charged KWC with summary disorderly conduct. According to police, C "is alleged to have moved a large pile of dirt and rocks from the roadside onto the roadway of the UBS Road."
R Township: The theft of a prescription bottle, that contained over the counter medication, from a residence located on 3rd Street, is under investigation by State Police. According to police, on September 6 between 1-9:30 pm someone "entered the residence of SCH and stole the medication from the medicine cabinet."
R Township: A burglary at the residence of CC is under investigaion by State Police. According to police, on September 17 between 6:30-9:15 pm someone entered her home and "scattered cigarettes throughout the residence floor . . . (and) also used the cigarettes to spell vulgar words on the floor."
H Township: State Police report they "recovered a bicycle" on X Road.
Two more reports involve people "discovered to have been trespassing on posted private property."
The moral of the story, I guess, is don't move to R township any time soon because there is apparently a crime spree underway right now with two crimes in one week. Residents, lock your medicine cabinets.
And while you're at it, put your cigarettes in there.
* Note to residents of tinytown: I refer to the town I live in as tinytown to avoid broadcasting my whereabouts to the world wide web, not for deragatory purposes. Try not to be offended.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Bump, set, spike
During the five months that David lived up here without us, he began playing volleyball with a group that gets together at our church on Monday nights. Naturally, when I arrived he assumed that I would want to join him in this activity because, you know, I played volleyball once in P.E. in the 8th grade.
At first I said no. No way, no how. Absolutely not.
Yet, somehow he talked me into going the first week we lived here, and it was every bit as bad as I expected it to be. Maybe worse. On the way to the church that night he said, "Okay, do you know about the three hits in volleyball? You don't just hit it over when it comes to you. You're supposed to bump it, then set it for someone to spike. They don't like it when you just hit it." "They don't like it?! Bump, set, spike?! I'll be lucky to make contact at all! Why didn't you tell me this was seriously competitive volleyball. Did I mention I haven't touched a volleyball since the 8th grade?!"
Luckily for David, we pulled into the church parking lot then, and I figure that's not the best place to murder one's husband, so I let it slide. We arrived at the gym full of people I had never met in my life. They were just getting started, so David and I were quickly assigned to a side, and the play begin. No introductions. No "Hi, how are you?" Just volleyball. Now.
After the longest hour imaginable play stopped, and everyone headed off the court. Oh good, it's over. No, says David, it's just a water break. Apparently, they play for TWO endless hours. Not me; I was glad we had driven separately so I could tuck my tail between my legs and leave. I vowed never to return.
I've mentioned before that I usually give up pretty easily. You know that saying winners never quit and quitters never win? I never got that. Win what? Their dignity? Their shame? Their time spent doing something they don't suck at? I figure they win quite a bit, actually. Nevertheless, of all the things I could decide to be tenacious about, I apparently picked volleyball. Because I went back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I don't know what has possessed me to persevere in this athletic pursuit. Perhaps it is the fact that David and I don't have a lot of common interests or activities that we do together. (He likes trains; I like working out. He likes trumpets; I like taking naps.) Perhaps it's the opportunity to get some physical activity. (Though this one is doubtful since I barely even moved my arms for the first two months.) Perhaps it's the interaction with other adults. (Though again . . . not a lot of chit-chatty social interaction going on.)
Whatever it is, I've stuck with it, and tonight for the first time, I've begun to think that maybe there's hope for me. I still suck, but I suck a lot less than I did three months ago. And David and I are having a good time doing this together. If you had asked me at any point prior to six months ago what joint interest David and I would pursue, volleyball would have been at the VERY bottom of the list.
I definitely never saw it coming.
Much like the balls that whiz right past me week after week.
At first I said no. No way, no how. Absolutely not.
Yet, somehow he talked me into going the first week we lived here, and it was every bit as bad as I expected it to be. Maybe worse. On the way to the church that night he said, "Okay, do you know about the three hits in volleyball? You don't just hit it over when it comes to you. You're supposed to bump it, then set it for someone to spike. They don't like it when you just hit it." "They don't like it?! Bump, set, spike?! I'll be lucky to make contact at all! Why didn't you tell me this was seriously competitive volleyball. Did I mention I haven't touched a volleyball since the 8th grade?!"
Luckily for David, we pulled into the church parking lot then, and I figure that's not the best place to murder one's husband, so I let it slide. We arrived at the gym full of people I had never met in my life. They were just getting started, so David and I were quickly assigned to a side, and the play begin. No introductions. No "Hi, how are you?" Just volleyball. Now.
After the longest hour imaginable play stopped, and everyone headed off the court. Oh good, it's over. No, says David, it's just a water break. Apparently, they play for TWO endless hours. Not me; I was glad we had driven separately so I could tuck my tail between my legs and leave. I vowed never to return.
I've mentioned before that I usually give up pretty easily. You know that saying winners never quit and quitters never win? I never got that. Win what? Their dignity? Their shame? Their time spent doing something they don't suck at? I figure they win quite a bit, actually. Nevertheless, of all the things I could decide to be tenacious about, I apparently picked volleyball. Because I went back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I don't know what has possessed me to persevere in this athletic pursuit. Perhaps it is the fact that David and I don't have a lot of common interests or activities that we do together. (He likes trains; I like working out. He likes trumpets; I like taking naps.) Perhaps it's the opportunity to get some physical activity. (Though this one is doubtful since I barely even moved my arms for the first two months.) Perhaps it's the interaction with other adults. (Though again . . . not a lot of chit-chatty social interaction going on.)
Whatever it is, I've stuck with it, and tonight for the first time, I've begun to think that maybe there's hope for me. I still suck, but I suck a lot less than I did three months ago. And David and I are having a good time doing this together. If you had asked me at any point prior to six months ago what joint interest David and I would pursue, volleyball would have been at the VERY bottom of the list.
I definitely never saw it coming.
Much like the balls that whiz right past me week after week.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The story of a girl and her GPS
I wasn't looking for someone. I had plans to drive to DC alone and was even looking forward to the solitude. No companion needed; just an atlas and a google map for me, please.
Then someone said, "Hey, do you want to borrow my GPS?" and the seed was planted. I'd never used a GPS before, but like driving on the left side of the road, it's something I always wanted to try. How could I say no?
As I hooked it up and chose the settings I wanted, I decided to skip the woman with the British accent because I really didn't want to listen to Super Nanny the whole way. Without thinking, I skipped right over the male British voice and selected a woman with an American accent.
Her name was Mandy.
We hit it off immediately despite the fact that I had never fallen for a female electronic device before. Mandy knew exactly where I needed to go and was faithful to keep me safely on route no matter how much I challenged her.
Of course, like any relationship ours had its issues. I didn't like when she would beep at me for going five mph over the speed limit. She didn't seem to like when I exited for gas or food. But, we worked it out. My competitive side was also a point of contention. She kept saying it was going to take me 6hrs 50 minutes to reach my destination, but I simply took that as a challenge. By the time I was halfway there, I was kicking her butt and had shaved over half an hour off her ridiculous estimate.
(It has been suggested that competing with my GPS is further evidence that I am a tad overly competitive, but I disagree. And I dare you to say otherwise. Really, I dare you. Wanna put $20 on it?)
So, things with Mandy were really going pretty well all the way up until we reached the DC metro area. Then it all went south so quickly. You see, she sent me down New York Ave. at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. The twenty-five minutes it took me to drive that 1.8 miles totally negated the happy six hours we'd had together. I decided right then that I was going to have to end it. Yes, I knew it would break her heart, but for the ride home, I was going to choose . . . the British man.
Once I made the decision, my heart was aflutter anew, for who could be more enjoyable to listen to during the six (not seven, Mandy!) hour drive home than Hugh or Colin or whatever this lovely British chap's name would be? He would say things like "gare-age" and "motorway," and maybe we would even stop for a spot of tea on the way home.
I was giddy with excitement and could hardly wait to meet him.
Imagine my disappointment to discover that my British paramour was named Tim. Not Hugh or Colin. Not even William or Edward. Just Tim. I should have realized from the start that this relationship was destined to fail.
It began with Tim taking me into the city to get on 295. All the way to the Pennsylvania Ave exit he led me, but still I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He must know how I love to see the sights, and he just wanted to make sure I didn't leave without seeing every memorial and monument possible. I'm sure he had only my best interest at heart. Sadly, that didn't make traffic on 295 move. I grew less and less fond of Tim with every minute of the hour I spent driving approximately 3 mph in a 65 mph zone.
Still, I thought, he must be wonderful; he has a British accent after all. But then he tried to take me the wrong way in Pennsylvania. I knew I needed to stay on 15. Rand-McNally knew I needed to stay on 15. But, Tim, he wanted me to take 11.
I'm sorry, Tim. It's been real, I said, but now you're just being ridiculous, and I'd like to unplug you so I can plug in my ipod since I really know the way home from here anyway.
And with that, I pulled the plug on Tim. Apparently, my affair with electronic devices was not meant to be.
Though I'm eyeing a Kindle on Amazon . . .
Then someone said, "Hey, do you want to borrow my GPS?" and the seed was planted. I'd never used a GPS before, but like driving on the left side of the road, it's something I always wanted to try. How could I say no?
As I hooked it up and chose the settings I wanted, I decided to skip the woman with the British accent because I really didn't want to listen to Super Nanny the whole way. Without thinking, I skipped right over the male British voice and selected a woman with an American accent.
Her name was Mandy.
We hit it off immediately despite the fact that I had never fallen for a female electronic device before. Mandy knew exactly where I needed to go and was faithful to keep me safely on route no matter how much I challenged her.
Of course, like any relationship ours had its issues. I didn't like when she would beep at me for going five mph over the speed limit. She didn't seem to like when I exited for gas or food. But, we worked it out. My competitive side was also a point of contention. She kept saying it was going to take me 6hrs 50 minutes to reach my destination, but I simply took that as a challenge. By the time I was halfway there, I was kicking her butt and had shaved over half an hour off her ridiculous estimate.
(It has been suggested that competing with my GPS is further evidence that I am a tad overly competitive, but I disagree. And I dare you to say otherwise. Really, I dare you. Wanna put $20 on it?)
So, things with Mandy were really going pretty well all the way up until we reached the DC metro area. Then it all went south so quickly. You see, she sent me down New York Ave. at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. The twenty-five minutes it took me to drive that 1.8 miles totally negated the happy six hours we'd had together. I decided right then that I was going to have to end it. Yes, I knew it would break her heart, but for the ride home, I was going to choose . . . the British man.
Once I made the decision, my heart was aflutter anew, for who could be more enjoyable to listen to during the six (not seven, Mandy!) hour drive home than Hugh or Colin or whatever this lovely British chap's name would be? He would say things like "gare-age" and "motorway," and maybe we would even stop for a spot of tea on the way home.
I was giddy with excitement and could hardly wait to meet him.
Imagine my disappointment to discover that my British paramour was named Tim. Not Hugh or Colin. Not even William or Edward. Just Tim. I should have realized from the start that this relationship was destined to fail.
It began with Tim taking me into the city to get on 295. All the way to the Pennsylvania Ave exit he led me, but still I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He must know how I love to see the sights, and he just wanted to make sure I didn't leave without seeing every memorial and monument possible. I'm sure he had only my best interest at heart. Sadly, that didn't make traffic on 295 move. I grew less and less fond of Tim with every minute of the hour I spent driving approximately 3 mph in a 65 mph zone.
Still, I thought, he must be wonderful; he has a British accent after all. But then he tried to take me the wrong way in Pennsylvania. I knew I needed to stay on 15. Rand-McNally knew I needed to stay on 15. But, Tim, he wanted me to take 11.
I'm sorry, Tim. It's been real, I said, but now you're just being ridiculous, and I'd like to unplug you so I can plug in my ipod since I really know the way home from here anyway.
And with that, I pulled the plug on Tim. Apparently, my affair with electronic devices was not meant to be.
Though I'm eyeing a Kindle on Amazon . . .
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Random thoughts from the road
On Friday I drove from northern Pennsylvania to Washington, DC to spend the weekend with my best friends from law school. It was my birthday on Saturday, so it was nice to spend that time with close friends who know and love me . . . but that's not what this post is about.
This is just a random sampling of thoughts and observations from my journey.
1. I really must learn to pronounce "metallurgy" because I pass one on the highway near here and always spend the next 10 miles saying the word in my head. I can never decide whether to say met-allergy or meta-lurgy. Really ruins the next leg of my drive.
2. The highway that runs through and near my town is Rt. 6. That's how we refer to it, but I now know from Mapquest and a GPS that its official name is Grand Army of the Republic Highway. Who names these things? I felt like I should be riding horseback and carrying a rifle and a flag.
3. In Lewisburg I passed a hospital that was located on Loan Rd. How apropos.
4. We seem to have only one radio station in our town, so I was enjoying scanning the stations during the drive. However, I heard the same country song a few times, and it was quite baffling. I decided either I do not get "take you for a ride on my big green tractor" or I totally get it. We'll leave it at that.
5. There is a place not far from here that offers covered wagon rides, but the post holding up their sign shows through, so it always looks like it says clovered wagon rides.
6. Speaking of signs, there is one as you enter a small township near here that says "X Township. Permits required." That's it. No explanation as to what type of permit. I always find this quite vexing. Do I need a permit to live there? To drive through? To breathe? To be vexed? What???
(By the way "townships" are common here, as are boroughs. I am used to living in cities or towns, and that's pretty much it, but everything here is a borough or a township. I think "township" sounds nice - very Little House on the Prairie like - but "borough" I'm not a fan of. It sounds like we dug some kind of deep hole for ourselves. Plus, it's hard to spell.)
7. I borrowed a GPS device for my trip, and I fell in love. First with Mandy (the voice giving me directions on the way down) then with Tim (the poorly named British chap who told me how to get home). I've since had to break it off with both of them, but I will save that for another post.
This is just a random sampling of thoughts and observations from my journey.
1. I really must learn to pronounce "metallurgy" because I pass one on the highway near here and always spend the next 10 miles saying the word in my head. I can never decide whether to say met-allergy or meta-lurgy. Really ruins the next leg of my drive.
2. The highway that runs through and near my town is Rt. 6. That's how we refer to it, but I now know from Mapquest and a GPS that its official name is Grand Army of the Republic Highway. Who names these things? I felt like I should be riding horseback and carrying a rifle and a flag.
3. In Lewisburg I passed a hospital that was located on Loan Rd. How apropos.
4. We seem to have only one radio station in our town, so I was enjoying scanning the stations during the drive. However, I heard the same country song a few times, and it was quite baffling. I decided either I do not get "take you for a ride on my big green tractor" or I totally get it. We'll leave it at that.
5. There is a place not far from here that offers covered wagon rides, but the post holding up their sign shows through, so it always looks like it says clovered wagon rides.
6. Speaking of signs, there is one as you enter a small township near here that says "X Township. Permits required." That's it. No explanation as to what type of permit. I always find this quite vexing. Do I need a permit to live there? To drive through? To breathe? To be vexed? What???
(By the way "townships" are common here, as are boroughs. I am used to living in cities or towns, and that's pretty much it, but everything here is a borough or a township. I think "township" sounds nice - very Little House on the Prairie like - but "borough" I'm not a fan of. It sounds like we dug some kind of deep hole for ourselves. Plus, it's hard to spell.)
7. I borrowed a GPS device for my trip, and I fell in love. First with Mandy (the voice giving me directions on the way down) then with Tim (the poorly named British chap who told me how to get home). I've since had to break it off with both of them, but I will save that for another post.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Shattered dreams
My dream is dead.
I was going to be a star. A movie star. I was going to be rich and famous and wow audiences and stun critics with my talent as Denzel Washington's love interest. And now it's over.
After more than 20 minutes of blood, sweat, and tears, the dream is dead. We were too late for the casting call.
Apparently, Denzel Washington is going to be filming a movie in the next town over, and today there was an open casting call. Sure, it was supposed to be for extras, but I just knew that when they saw me, the casting directors would be so blown away by my talent (which would somehow be evident by my mere presence) that they would cast me in a lead role. In fact, they would probably re-write the movie so that it centered more around my character. And make sequels, lots of sequels.
Sadly, I did not learn of this 12-8 pm casting call until 7:45 pm. David's cousin saw it in the paper and called to see if I was crazy enough to stop what I was doing right that second and go with her. She said she couldn't get anyone else to go, but I'm pretty sure what she meant by that was, "You are beautiful and talented, and I love being with you, but I had to ask everyone else in the family first so their feelings wouldn't be hurt, but it's really you I wanted to go." Or something close anyway.
So, having a limited number of opportunities to do crazy and spontaneous things since I'm almost 29 years old again, and I live in Arctic Mayberry, I said yes. Yes, if you absolutely insist, I'll stop cleaning the bathroom and go become rich and famous. Thus, my dream was born.
And 20 minutes later it was dead. (Or at least floundering on life-support. I guess it wasn't fully dead for another 10 minutes, which is when we gave up hope of finding the casting director's hotel.)
So now Mary Esther and I (I started to abbreviate her name as ME, but then it read "ME and I," and I was afraid that would give some of you the impression that I was schizophrenic, or worse yet, that I use incorrect grammar, so I'll have to write out her name) are trying to find another way to achieve fame and fortune without actually having to do any work. We're considering reality t.v., but we're running into a lot of roadblocks.
Our stomachs are too weak for shows that involve drinking cow's blood or eating roaches, so Survivor and Amazing Race are out.
We have no talent, so American Idol and America's Got Talent are obviously out.
We have no readily noticeable neuroses, addictions, sordid pasts, or plastic body parts so Big Brother is out.
We don't have enough children for a show on TLC . . . though, if we adopted sixteen kids who were all blind and mute and maybe missing a limb. Hmm, maybe there's hope yet.
I was going to be a star. A movie star. I was going to be rich and famous and wow audiences and stun critics with my talent as Denzel Washington's love interest. And now it's over.
After more than 20 minutes of blood, sweat, and tears, the dream is dead. We were too late for the casting call.
Apparently, Denzel Washington is going to be filming a movie in the next town over, and today there was an open casting call. Sure, it was supposed to be for extras, but I just knew that when they saw me, the casting directors would be so blown away by my talent (which would somehow be evident by my mere presence) that they would cast me in a lead role. In fact, they would probably re-write the movie so that it centered more around my character. And make sequels, lots of sequels.
Sadly, I did not learn of this 12-8 pm casting call until 7:45 pm. David's cousin saw it in the paper and called to see if I was crazy enough to stop what I was doing right that second and go with her. She said she couldn't get anyone else to go, but I'm pretty sure what she meant by that was, "You are beautiful and talented, and I love being with you, but I had to ask everyone else in the family first so their feelings wouldn't be hurt, but it's really you I wanted to go." Or something close anyway.
So, having a limited number of opportunities to do crazy and spontaneous things since I'm almost 29 years old again, and I live in Arctic Mayberry, I said yes. Yes, if you absolutely insist, I'll stop cleaning the bathroom and go become rich and famous. Thus, my dream was born.
And 20 minutes later it was dead. (Or at least floundering on life-support. I guess it wasn't fully dead for another 10 minutes, which is when we gave up hope of finding the casting director's hotel.)
So now Mary Esther and I (I started to abbreviate her name as ME, but then it read "ME and I," and I was afraid that would give some of you the impression that I was schizophrenic, or worse yet, that I use incorrect grammar, so I'll have to write out her name) are trying to find another way to achieve fame and fortune without actually having to do any work. We're considering reality t.v., but we're running into a lot of roadblocks.
Our stomachs are too weak for shows that involve drinking cow's blood or eating roaches, so Survivor and Amazing Race are out.
We have no talent, so American Idol and America's Got Talent are obviously out.
We have no readily noticeable neuroses, addictions, sordid pasts, or plastic body parts so Big Brother is out.
We don't have enough children for a show on TLC . . . though, if we adopted sixteen kids who were all blind and mute and maybe missing a limb. Hmm, maybe there's hope yet.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Exercises in futility
It has occurred to me that I spend a large portion of my life engaging in utterly futile activities.
Like cleaning the bathroom when I live with three males. One of them (at least) apparently enjoys peeing on the bottom of the raised lid and letting (some of) it just splash into the bowl instead of peeing directly into the bowl. I guess the bowl itself just isn't challenging enough.
Like killing fruit flies. Ohmygod, the fruit flies. I kill dozens a day, yet they seem only to increase in number. I had a brilliant idea this morning, though. Last night I said to my mom that maybe I should just name them and consider them pets instead of killing them since killing them seems to be an exercise in futility. But then I remembered . . . all of our pets die! Seriously, we have the world's worst luck with pets ever. Among the pets that died under our care when I was growing up were several dogs, several cats, a bird, an iguana, a chameleon, numerous fish, and a peacock or two, I kid you not. So maybe I'm onto something here. I bet if I give them names and pretend to love them, they will quickly meet their demise.
Like talking to Lauren. This girl talks all. day. long, and often it leaves me completely bewildered. Here are a couple of conversations from this week:
Lauren: Mommy, I wish there was nobody in the world except princesses so I wouldn't have a tummy ache.
Me: Hmm, because princesses don't get tummy aches?
L: I wish we were just all princesses.
M: But what about the boys? Would they be princes?
L: Well, I wish there just weren't any people at all, actually.
M: But if there were no people, you wouldn't be here.
L: I wish I was a fish.
Conversation 2,387:
Me: We're going to a party at Evan's house.
L: Who's Evan?
M: Your cousin Evan. You know Evan.
L: Oh yeah, I thought you were talking about the other Evan.
M: What other Evan? We don't know another Evan.
L: You don't know him, but I do. He has white hair.
M: Oh, and where did you meet this Evan?
L: You took me to his house, but you didn't go in. I just went upstairs and played and you weren't there.
For the record, I have not and would not drop her off at some strange boy's house. Like many conversations with Lauren, I have NO idea what she is talking about. I recently suggested that maybe she had dreamed something she was describing to me because I knew it had not happened in real life. Now any time she's wrong about something she says she was just dreaming.
The list of futile activities is endless. Doing laundry, dusting this almost-entirely-wood-floor house, feeding my children. Seriously, they just get hungry again.
Like cleaning the bathroom when I live with three males. One of them (at least) apparently enjoys peeing on the bottom of the raised lid and letting (some of) it just splash into the bowl instead of peeing directly into the bowl. I guess the bowl itself just isn't challenging enough.
Like killing fruit flies. Ohmygod, the fruit flies. I kill dozens a day, yet they seem only to increase in number. I had a brilliant idea this morning, though. Last night I said to my mom that maybe I should just name them and consider them pets instead of killing them since killing them seems to be an exercise in futility. But then I remembered . . . all of our pets die! Seriously, we have the world's worst luck with pets ever. Among the pets that died under our care when I was growing up were several dogs, several cats, a bird, an iguana, a chameleon, numerous fish, and a peacock or two, I kid you not. So maybe I'm onto something here. I bet if I give them names and pretend to love them, they will quickly meet their demise.
Like talking to Lauren. This girl talks all. day. long, and often it leaves me completely bewildered. Here are a couple of conversations from this week:
Lauren: Mommy, I wish there was nobody in the world except princesses so I wouldn't have a tummy ache.
Me: Hmm, because princesses don't get tummy aches?
L: I wish we were just all princesses.
M: But what about the boys? Would they be princes?
L: Well, I wish there just weren't any people at all, actually.
M: But if there were no people, you wouldn't be here.
L: I wish I was a fish.
Conversation 2,387:
Me: We're going to a party at Evan's house.
L: Who's Evan?
M: Your cousin Evan. You know Evan.
L: Oh yeah, I thought you were talking about the other Evan.
M: What other Evan? We don't know another Evan.
L: You don't know him, but I do. He has white hair.
M: Oh, and where did you meet this Evan?
L: You took me to his house, but you didn't go in. I just went upstairs and played and you weren't there.
For the record, I have not and would not drop her off at some strange boy's house. Like many conversations with Lauren, I have NO idea what she is talking about. I recently suggested that maybe she had dreamed something she was describing to me because I knew it had not happened in real life. Now any time she's wrong about something she says she was just dreaming.
The list of futile activities is endless. Doing laundry, dusting this almost-entirely-wood-floor house, feeding my children. Seriously, they just get hungry again.
Monday, August 3, 2009
New Survivor Game
I got this in my email today (thanks, Ellen), and while I never forward things to people and have never copied an email to my blog before, I thought this was too funny not to share.
THE NEXT SURVIVOR SERIES
Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and
3 kids each for six weeks.
Each kid will play
two sports
and either take music
or dance classes.
There is no fast food.
Each man must
take care of his 3 kids;
keep his assigned house clean,
correct all homework,
and complete science projects,
cook, do laundry,
and pay a list of 'pretend' bills
with not enough money.
In addition, each man
will have to budget in money
for groceries each week.
Each man
must remember the birthdays
of all their friends and relatives,
and send cards out
on time--no emailing.
Each man must also
take each child to a doctor's appointment,
a dentist appointment
and a haircut appointment.
He must make
one unscheduled and inconvenient
visit per child
to the Urgent Care.
He must also
make cookies or cupcakes
for a social function.
Each man will be responsible for
decorating his own assigned hou se,
planting flowers outside
and keeping it presentable
at all times.
The men will only
have access to television
when the kids are asleep
and all chores are done.
The men must
shave their legs,
wear makeup daily,
adorn himself with jewelry,
wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes,
keep fingernails polished
and eyebrows groomed.
During one of the six weeks,
the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches,
and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or
slow down from other duties.
They must attend
weekly school meetings,
church, and find time
at least once to spend the afternoon
at the park or a similar setting.
They will need to
read a book to the kids
each night and in the morning,
feed them, dress them,
brush their teeth and
comb their hair by 7:00 am.
A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information:
each child's birthday,
height, weight,
shoe size, clothes size
and doctor's name.
Also the child's weight at birth,
length, time of birth,
and length of labor,
each child's favorite color,
middle name,
favorite snack,
favorite song,
favorite drink,
favorite toy,
biggest fear and
what they want to be when they grow up.
The kids vote them off the island
based on performance.
The last man wins only if...
he still has enough en ergy
to be intimate with his spouse
at a moment's notice.
If the last man does win,
he can play the game over and over
and over again for the next 18-25 years
eventually earning the right
To be called Mother!
After you get done laughing,
send this to as many females as you
think will get a kick out of it and
as many men as you think can
handle it.
Just don't send it back to me.... I'm going to bed.
THE NEXT SURVIVOR SERIES
Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and
3 kids each for six weeks.
Each kid will play
two sports
and either take music
or dance classes.
There is no fast food.
Each man must
take care of his 3 kids;
keep his assigned house clean,
correct all homework,
and complete science projects,
cook, do laundry,
and pay a list of 'pretend' bills
with not enough money.
In addition, each man
will have to budget in money
for groceries each week.
Each man
must remember the birthdays
of all their friends and relatives,
and send cards out
on time--no emailing.
Each man must also
take each child to a doctor's appointment,
a dentist appointment
and a haircut appointment.
He must make
one unscheduled and inconvenient
visit per child
to the Urgent Care.
He must also
make cookies or cupcakes
for a social function.
Each man will be responsible for
decorating his own assigned hou se,
planting flowers outside
and keeping it presentable
at all times.
The men will only
have access to television
when the kids are asleep
and all chores are done.
The men must
shave their legs,
wear makeup daily,
adorn himself with jewelry,
wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes,
keep fingernails polished
and eyebrows groomed.
During one of the six weeks,
the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches,
and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or
slow down from other duties.
They must attend
weekly school meetings,
church, and find time
at least once to spend the afternoon
at the park or a similar setting.
They will need to
read a book to the kids
each night and in the morning,
feed them, dress them,
brush their teeth and
comb their hair by 7:00 am.
A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information:
each child's birthday,
height, weight,
shoe size, clothes size
and doctor's name.
Also the child's weight at birth,
length, time of birth,
and length of labor,
each child's favorite color,
middle name,
favorite snack,
favorite song,
favorite drink,
favorite toy,
biggest fear and
what they want to be when they grow up.
The kids vote them off the island
based on performance.
The last man wins only if...
he still has enough en ergy
to be intimate with his spouse
at a moment's notice.
If the last man does win,
he can play the game over and over
and over again for the next 18-25 years
eventually earning the right
To be called Mother!
After you get done laughing,
send this to as many females as you
think will get a kick out of it and
as many men as you think can
handle it.
Just don't send it back to me.... I'm going to bed.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
From trials to toots
My unsolicited advice for the day: don't get too big for your britches. You never know where life will take you.
Tonight I found myself, as I do many nights, bathing two children while the third was sitting on the potty. As usual, all three events reached a crisis point at the same time.
Lauren screaming through sobs: "Mommy, I got pee-pee on my legs!!! Moooooooooommy!!"
Ethan crying in the fire engine wailing decibel that only he can reach: "Mommy, it's in my eyes! I got soap in my eyes!".
Josh: Mom, I need to toot. (our word for passing gas)
Me, dripping with sweat from trying to rinse out Ethan's eyes while wiping pee off Lauren's legs in our house that does not have air conditioning: So toot.
Josh: Not in my bath water; that's gross!
Me: If you have to toot, then toot in the bath. It's fine. Everyone does it.
Josh: You don't. You've never tooted in your bath.
Me: Yes, Josh, I've tooted in my bath.
See what my life has become? At some point, seemingly a lifetime ago, I wore power suits and studied case law and debated legal nuances. I imagined that when I was in my 30's I would be arguing to judges and juries about constitutional rights or perhaps persuading my fellow citizens to cast their votes for me and send me to Washington.
But, no. I'm confessing to my six year-old son that I toot in the bathtub.
Like I said, don't get too big for your britches.
Tonight I found myself, as I do many nights, bathing two children while the third was sitting on the potty. As usual, all three events reached a crisis point at the same time.
Lauren screaming through sobs: "Mommy, I got pee-pee on my legs!!! Moooooooooommy!!"
Ethan crying in the fire engine wailing decibel that only he can reach: "Mommy, it's in my eyes! I got soap in my eyes!".
Josh: Mom, I need to toot. (our word for passing gas)
Me, dripping with sweat from trying to rinse out Ethan's eyes while wiping pee off Lauren's legs in our house that does not have air conditioning: So toot.
Josh: Not in my bath water; that's gross!
Me: If you have to toot, then toot in the bath. It's fine. Everyone does it.
Josh: You don't. You've never tooted in your bath.
Me: Yes, Josh, I've tooted in my bath.
See what my life has become? At some point, seemingly a lifetime ago, I wore power suits and studied case law and debated legal nuances. I imagined that when I was in my 30's I would be arguing to judges and juries about constitutional rights or perhaps persuading my fellow citizens to cast their votes for me and send me to Washington.
But, no. I'm confessing to my six year-old son that I toot in the bathtub.
Like I said, don't get too big for your britches.
Friday, May 8, 2009
If that's my real name
Yeah, so those of you who know me in real life, I have news for you. You didn't really know me at. all. Not even my real name.
I finally went to the social security office yesterday and officially took my husband's name. That's right, after nine years, I'm starting to think this whole marriage thing may last, so I took the final step.
I know what you're thinking . . . "Becky, you don't look old enough to have been married nine years! That must be a typo!" And then after that, you'll probably think, "Wait. I thought you and David had the same last name already?" Alas, you are mistaken.
When we got married in 2000, I immediately went to the DMV and got a new driver's license with my alleged new name. They handed it right over. Well, actually, they took quite a bit of my hard-earned law clerk wage for it and made me sit for an hour and a half next to some woman with awful B.O. and approximately 63 tattoos on her neck, whom I'm pretty sure is now busy making license plates for the vehicle I'm driving with said license, THEN they handed it over.
But, for some reason, that was as far as I got. So, for nine years I've had a driver's license with David's last name, a checking account with said name, a couple of bar cards (which enable me to practice law, not evade a cover charge) with said name, and even a few children with said name. But, according to the Internal Revenue Service - and since when could they be wrong? - that is not my name.
At least it wasn't until yesterday. Yesterday I went to the social security office, waited 30 minutes for my number to be called, and then handed the lady at the window a copy of my marriage certificate. It took at least four whole minutes. Seriously.
Now you know why it took me nine years.
I finally went to the social security office yesterday and officially took my husband's name. That's right, after nine years, I'm starting to think this whole marriage thing may last, so I took the final step.
I know what you're thinking . . . "Becky, you don't look old enough to have been married nine years! That must be a typo!" And then after that, you'll probably think, "Wait. I thought you and David had the same last name already?" Alas, you are mistaken.
When we got married in 2000, I immediately went to the DMV and got a new driver's license with my alleged new name. They handed it right over. Well, actually, they took quite a bit of my hard-earned law clerk wage for it and made me sit for an hour and a half next to some woman with awful B.O. and approximately 63 tattoos on her neck, whom I'm pretty sure is now busy making license plates for the vehicle I'm driving with said license, THEN they handed it over.
But, for some reason, that was as far as I got. So, for nine years I've had a driver's license with David's last name, a checking account with said name, a couple of bar cards (which enable me to practice law, not evade a cover charge) with said name, and even a few children with said name. But, according to the Internal Revenue Service - and since when could they be wrong? - that is not my name.
At least it wasn't until yesterday. Yesterday I went to the social security office, waited 30 minutes for my number to be called, and then handed the lady at the window a copy of my marriage certificate. It took at least four whole minutes. Seriously.
Now you know why it took me nine years.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
America's Most Wanted
That is one place I'm pretty sure you'll never see my picture turn up.
I was driving behind a Loomis truck this morning, and I began to wonder about the kind of person who could pull off robbing such a target. As I pondered, I became firmly convinced that were I ever to attempt such a feat, my mug would most assuredly turn up on America's Dumbest Criminals rather than America's Most Wanted.
I so lack the energy and focus to plan an armed robbery. It was with no small effort that I decided on - and executed - a plan to have cereal and toast for dinner tonight. The idea of studying truck design and security and driver routes - not to mention coming up with a good stick 'em up line - just flat out exhausts me.
Also, I'm pretty easily deterred, so those little details that can't be anticipated would mostly likely derail my exhaustingly laid plans.
Like rain. I don't like to be out in the rain. Maybe it's because I don't enjoy being wet, or maybe it's because I'm afraid of lightning (which makes me unable to bring myself to hold a giant metal lightning rod, aka an umbrella, over my head during a storm), but I will seriously reconfigure my day if it rains. Library books overdue? They can wait till tomorrow. Grocery run? We can eat cereal again. Take Joshua to school? Aw, he can read at home. Suffice it to say, the odds are pretty high that if it rained, my larceny plans would be out the window.
Also, if I was having a bad hair day. I mean, the chances of my having a mug shot taken go up astronomically if I decide to commit a felony, right? Who wants an ugly mug shot? Just ask Nick Nolte.
I suppose there are a lot of downsides to being a motivationally-challenged individual. If I weren't so lazy, I'd list them. There is, however, an upside. Who knows what kind of havoc I might wreak on the world if I had more energy? Which just led me to a brilliant idea. Give all of the criminals children to adopt. Clearly, they have too much time and energy on their hands, and who can suck that right out of a person better than a few little miniature people? I know. I boggle the mind.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
T minus 15 days until Departure
The countdown has begun. I wish I could say the same about the packing. I had a dream that someone threw a surprise packing party for me, and it was awesome . . . there were like 10 people here to help me pack up our stuff. But, you know, an even more awesome surprise would be a packing party that was held with me in abstentia. Just in case my dream was prophetic, I'm gonna head to Barnes & Noble for awhile tomorrow. Did you get that? Barnes & Noble from say 10-4. (I expect it to take awhile.)
I know what you're thinking: I really love you, Beck, but I don't relish the idea of packing your kids' 812 pieces of clothing and 47 pairs of fake crocs. Understandable.
Fret not, I have another way you can help. You wouldn't mind bringing our cat to Pennsylvania for us, would you? You could drive him or accompany him on a plane, totally your choice. Because I'm laid-back like that.
See, here's the thing. When David and I made this drive in January, it took us 17 hours without kids. Given that the kids required 7 stops on the drive from here to Disney World (normally a 7 hr drive), I'm estimating it will take us approximately 6 weeks to get to Pennsylvania. I suspect that could be a problem for our cat.
I took Sebastian to the vet Tuesday (because he has conjunctivitis), and the vet gave me some kitty tranquilizers to use during the trip. I couldn't help but notice, however, that he said to give Sebastian 1/4 of a tablet each day, yet he gave me 3 tablets. I can only assume it was because he astutely noticed the three children I had with me and how they were all trying climb onto the counter to eat doggie treats. I'm pretty sure I caught a wink-wink nudge-nudge when he handed me the three pills. I'm just sayin'. I mean, it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good tranquilizer, right?
So, the vet says that if we sedate the cat he can probably make it 6-7 hours without having to pee. I'm guessing that should get us at least to Atlanta.
Friday, April 17, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday
This week's 7 Quick Takes (Hosted by Conversion Diary):
Finally had my surgery on Tuesday. Several people have asked me a) was it successful or b) what exactly did he do? The answer to both questions is the same: I have no idea.
I don't know what brilliant surgeon came up with the idea of talking to patients while they're in the recovery room having awakened - and I use that term loosely - from anesthesia about 90 seconds prior. I guess if you're the doctor, and you're trying to get out of there quickly, this is a great way of limiting the number of annoying questions you'll be asked.
However, if you're the patient, this is completely pointless. I have a vague recollection of Dr. B coming to the recovery area, and in between my violent convulsions (I shake a lot when I wake up) and clawing off of my skin (I itch a lot when I wake up), he said something to me. Yep, something.
The good news is I have a follow up with him in about a week, so I will wait and ask my annoying questions then.
I had some very odd reaction when they started my i.v. before surgery. The only thing in it was lactated ringers . . . which my research reveals does not involve nursing lemurs at all . . . so it should have been pretty much impossible to have a reaction to that. However, being the medical freakshow that I strive to be, I started having difficulty breathing - my chest felt like someone was sitting on it - and dissolved into seismic coughing fits. They gave me some oxygen and some sedatives and gave me their expert medical opinions that, yes, it was very odd indeed.
The medicine did not stop my wheezing and coughing, but it did make me not care whether I stopped breathing on the operating table. No problemo, dude.
While they were checking me out, my mom apparently felt it important to convince them that I wasn't crazy or faking. (I guess they get a lot of that?) So, she pointed out that my neck was turning red and had a hive on it.
A hive?
Yes, she said, there's only one. Now, I'm no doctor, but I've never heard of breaking out in a hive. She kept mentioning it to everyone with a hair net on, so finally I got her to hand me a mirror so I could see it. I swear it was the size of gnat. In fact, I'm pretty sure it wasn't a hive at all but a gnat bite.
It was apparently unrelated to my respiratory failure brought on by the lemur milk in my i.v.
So, enough about my surgery. I'm doing well now and hoping to advance light years in my recovery today because I have two soccer games and two weddings to attend tomorrow.
Lauren was playing in the living room yesterday, and a fly buzzed by her head. She jumped up hysterically crying, "Mommy, there's a bee in here!" I assured her it was only a fly; I had already noticed it. She said, "Mommy, it's not a fly. I heard it saying, 'sting! sting!'"
Can't argue with that.
I don't think I ever posted pictures from the Renaissance Festival at Joshua's school last month. His favorite part was getting a bandage for a fake jousting wound. How did I never realize how a dress-up collection could be enhanced by a piece of gauze and a red marker? Oh, that's right, I'm not morbid!
Lauren looked cute with her princess braid, which she LOVED:
While I'm posting pictures, here are a few from Josh's class Easter party. They always sing/sign a few songs for the parents, and I am so impressed with how much sign language my son knows. He is less than impressed by having his picture taken so many times.
Did I already write about taking the kids to see a movie a couple of weeks ago? I don't think I did.
We went to see Monsters v. Aliens - which was a great movie, by the way - and, of course, the kids had to go to the bathroom afterward.
While standing behind Josh as he went to relieve himself, I noticed that the button and zipper on his pants were in the back. "Josh," I inquired, "Have you had your pants on backward all day?" "Huh?" He had somehow managed to just pull them up that morning rather than actually opening them. What got me was that I knew he had already gone to the bathroom twice at church that morning and NEVER NOTICED!
So, then I come out of the stall and take a look at Ethan's face. My mom had snuck some hot tamales into the theater, and of course, we let them have popcorn. Ethan had tiny little popcorn pieces all over his face. Why didn't they fall off, you may wonder? Because 80% of his face was red and sticky from the hot tamales, so the popcorn was stuck to it like glue.
We looked like quite the superhero sight coming out of that theater . . . Backward Pants Boy and his sidekick Sticky Popcorn Face.
1.
Finally had my surgery on Tuesday. Several people have asked me a) was it successful or b) what exactly did he do? The answer to both questions is the same: I have no idea.
I don't know what brilliant surgeon came up with the idea of talking to patients while they're in the recovery room having awakened - and I use that term loosely - from anesthesia about 90 seconds prior. I guess if you're the doctor, and you're trying to get out of there quickly, this is a great way of limiting the number of annoying questions you'll be asked.
However, if you're the patient, this is completely pointless. I have a vague recollection of Dr. B coming to the recovery area, and in between my violent convulsions (I shake a lot when I wake up) and clawing off of my skin (I itch a lot when I wake up), he said something to me. Yep, something.
The good news is I have a follow up with him in about a week, so I will wait and ask my annoying questions then.
2.
I had some very odd reaction when they started my i.v. before surgery. The only thing in it was lactated ringers . . . which my research reveals does not involve nursing lemurs at all . . . so it should have been pretty much impossible to have a reaction to that. However, being the medical freakshow that I strive to be, I started having difficulty breathing - my chest felt like someone was sitting on it - and dissolved into seismic coughing fits. They gave me some oxygen and some sedatives and gave me their expert medical opinions that, yes, it was very odd indeed.
The medicine did not stop my wheezing and coughing, but it did make me not care whether I stopped breathing on the operating table. No problemo, dude.
While they were checking me out, my mom apparently felt it important to convince them that I wasn't crazy or faking. (I guess they get a lot of that?) So, she pointed out that my neck was turning red and had a hive on it.
A hive?
Yes, she said, there's only one. Now, I'm no doctor, but I've never heard of breaking out in a hive. She kept mentioning it to everyone with a hair net on, so finally I got her to hand me a mirror so I could see it. I swear it was the size of gnat. In fact, I'm pretty sure it wasn't a hive at all but a gnat bite.
It was apparently unrelated to my respiratory failure brought on by the lemur milk in my i.v.
3.
So, enough about my surgery. I'm doing well now and hoping to advance light years in my recovery today because I have two soccer games and two weddings to attend tomorrow.
4.
Lauren was playing in the living room yesterday, and a fly buzzed by her head. She jumped up hysterically crying, "Mommy, there's a bee in here!" I assured her it was only a fly; I had already noticed it. She said, "Mommy, it's not a fly. I heard it saying, 'sting! sting!'"
Can't argue with that.
5.
I don't think I ever posted pictures from the Renaissance Festival at Joshua's school last month. His favorite part was getting a bandage for a fake jousting wound. How did I never realize how a dress-up collection could be enhanced by a piece of gauze and a red marker? Oh, that's right, I'm not morbid!
Lauren looked cute with her princess braid, which she LOVED:
6.
While I'm posting pictures, here are a few from Josh's class Easter party. They always sing/sign a few songs for the parents, and I am so impressed with how much sign language my son knows. He is less than impressed by having his picture taken so many times.
7.
Did I already write about taking the kids to see a movie a couple of weeks ago? I don't think I did.
We went to see Monsters v. Aliens - which was a great movie, by the way - and, of course, the kids had to go to the bathroom afterward.
While standing behind Josh as he went to relieve himself, I noticed that the button and zipper on his pants were in the back. "Josh," I inquired, "Have you had your pants on backward all day?" "Huh?" He had somehow managed to just pull them up that morning rather than actually opening them. What got me was that I knew he had already gone to the bathroom twice at church that morning and NEVER NOTICED!
So, then I come out of the stall and take a look at Ethan's face. My mom had snuck some hot tamales into the theater, and of course, we let them have popcorn. Ethan had tiny little popcorn pieces all over his face. Why didn't they fall off, you may wonder? Because 80% of his face was red and sticky from the hot tamales, so the popcorn was stuck to it like glue.
We looked like quite the superhero sight coming out of that theater . . . Backward Pants Boy and his sidekick Sticky Popcorn Face.
Monday, April 6, 2009
I feel better already
Can I just say how thankful I am to Good Housekeeping magazine for its sage advice? I mean, seriously, here I've been feeling all stressed out and anxious about life, and apparently the people at Good Housekeeping have discovered the 52 secrets, yes secrets, to rid my life of stress.
In the off chance that some of you also experience stress, I felt obligated to share some of these groundbreaking, scientifically-proven tips with you. Because I'm great like that. And because they couldn't put it in a magazine if it wasn't scientifically proven right?
1. Take a Mental Vacation:
In the off chance that some of you also experience stress, I felt obligated to share some of these groundbreaking, scientifically-proven tips with you. Because I'm great like that. And because they couldn't put it in a magazine if it wasn't scientifically proven right?
1. Take a Mental Vacation:
When you need to deflate stress, treat yourself to a vacation that’s all in your head: Close your eyes and imagine a relaxing place, such as a beach, a mountain view, or a cozy room. Notice everything you can about your spot. What can you see and smell? The more vivid a picture you paint in your mind, the more your body will respond to the invitation to relax.
Yeah, pretending I'm in Tahiti drinking something with a little umbrella in it when I'm really cleaning pee off the bathroom floor for the third time today is going to help me a lot. I may be able to pretend I'm seeing a sunset and sand, but all the imagination in the world is not going to make this pee smell like coconut. Maybe if I put on some sunscreen first. Then David will be all, "Why do you have to wear sunscreen to clean the bathroom?" and I'll be all, "Because I'm pretending I'm at the beach," and he'll be all, "Well, why don't you wear a bikini, too, then?" and I'll get all mad at his supposedly helpful, but really just self-serving, suggestion.
Actually, I'm starting to see how this could seem like one of our real vacations after all.
2. Bring Out Your Inner Radiance:
Yeah, pretending I'm in Tahiti drinking something with a little umbrella in it when I'm really cleaning pee off the bathroom floor for the third time today is going to help me a lot. I may be able to pretend I'm seeing a sunset and sand, but all the imagination in the world is not going to make this pee smell like coconut. Maybe if I put on some sunscreen first. Then David will be all, "Why do you have to wear sunscreen to clean the bathroom?" and I'll be all, "Because I'm pretending I'm at the beach," and he'll be all, "Well, why don't you wear a bikini, too, then?" and I'll get all mad at his supposedly helpful, but really just self-serving, suggestion.
Actually, I'm starting to see how this could seem like one of our real vacations after all.
2. Bring Out Your Inner Radiance:
According to Ayurveda, the ancient tradition of medicine from India, a facial massage promotes health and brings out your inner radiance. Using your middle fingers, rub these points on your face in a clockwise direction for 20-30 seconds each: middle of the chin, corners of the mouth, middle of the area between your upper lip and nose, outer edges of both nostrils, center of the cheek bones, temples, and the space between the eyebrows.
Okay, aside from the obvious question (which, in case you were wondering, is "If India has such a firm monopoly on medicine, whey do all of their doctors work here?"), I have a few others:
What would happen if I rubbed in a counter-clockwise direction? Would it bring out my inner dullness?
Do I have to do this in private? Because, really, my stress happens more when I'm surrounded by people, and this could really freak people out. On the other hand, maybe if I did it while I was at a red light (which I find highly stressful) and acted like I didn't know other people were watching me, it would be kind of funny. I would have to find a really long red light, though, because by the time I rub all of those places for 30 seconds, that would take me like 4 minutes, and I don't think most traffic lights stay red that long. Maybe I could do it while I'm in line at Walmart. That's a stressful place.
3. Swallow Truth Serum:
Declare your independence from hiding your true feelings by choosing one day this week to pretend that you've swallowed truth serum. The goal isn't to drop bombshells ("I've always hated you in black"), but to be honest in loving way. For example, "I'd love to meet for dinner this weekend, but I am tired and need to rest. Let's pick another time." It's incredibly liberating and is a quick way to reduce your stress levels.
Now this one I could really do something with. Here's how I'm pretty sure it would go:
Josh: Mommy, can you play Monopoly, Jr with me?
Me: Yes, but I don't want to.
Josh: Why not?
Me: Because you stink at it, and you're a bad loser, and I don't want to listen to you whine.
Josh: [crying now]
Me: Stop crying, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
David: What did you say?
Me: That he stinks at Monopoly
David: Why'd you say that?
Me: Because I'm pretending I drank truth serum.
David: Huh?
Me: You know you sound like a neanderthal when you say, "huh?"
David: What's the matter with you?
Me: Nothing. I think I need to go rub some sunscreen on and pretend I'm at the beach again.
4. Do Less:
World-class travelers offer great advice: once you've finished packing, remove three things. You likely won't miss them, your remaining clothes will be less wrinkled, and you'll have room for souvenirs. This week, look at your to-do list cross three things off. Whether you move them to next week or decide they're not necessary, this exercise helps you keep enough time to accommodate the unexpected or spend an afternoon doing whatever you darn well please.
Seriously, people get paid to write articles like this? First off, I'm taking life advice from people known as "world-class travelers?" Second, who packs and then removes three things? That makes no sense.
However, the idea of crossing things of my to-do list without actually doing them definitely appeals to me. If I had a to-do list, I would totally do this. In fact, right now I'm going to make one just so I can scratch things off:
1.Be nice
2.Cook dinner
3.Spend more time playing with kids
Wow, I feel better already.
Just so you know, these were only four of fifty-two such helpful secrets. If you read the whole article, your life will no doubt be dramatically tranformed. And, if it's not, just pretend it is, because this whole thing seems to be pretty much imaginary anyway.
Seriously, people get paid to write articles like this? First off, I'm taking life advice from people known as "world-class travelers?" Second, who packs and then removes three things? That makes no sense.
However, the idea of crossing things of my to-do list without actually doing them definitely appeals to me. If I had a to-do list, I would totally do this. In fact, right now I'm going to make one just so I can scratch things off:
1.
2.
3.
Wow, I feel better already.
Just so you know, these were only four of fifty-two such helpful secrets. If you read the whole article, your life will no doubt be dramatically tranformed. And, if it's not, just pretend it is, because this whole thing seems to be pretty much imaginary anyway.
Friday, March 20, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday
Here are my Quick Takes for this week, since technically, it is still Friday.
1.
I apologize for weird spacing issues in my posts. I've discovered that I can get online using my dad's (PC) laptop, and I swore I would not write another blog post from this @#$%* Mac, but alas, I got in late tonight, and the laptop has been shut down already. And, if you know me at all, you know I'm pretty easily deterred . . . if something seems like a lot of trouble, I usually don't bother.
2.
I know what you're thinking. "You got in late? From whence?" (You're welcome. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt that you are quite an eloquent thinker.)
So, yeah, I went on a double date of sorts. Joshua and I went with my brother and his daughter (and a girl he's dating) to see Big River at the Springer. It was excellent. It ended way past my bedtime.
3.
I decided that I didn't feel like getting really dressed up for it (shaving my legs seemed like a lot of trouble . . . see #1), so I just wore my nicest pair of skinny jeans and a dressy black shirt.
The outfit would have been a lot less trouble if I wasn't deodorantly challenged. I spent at least as long getting deodorant spots off my black shirt as I would have shaving my legs. Seriously, if there's a "Dressing for Dummies" course out there somewhere, let me know. I think I dress without getting deodorant on my shirt about twice a month. (And, no, putting the shirt on first won't help . . . it's a lot of trouble to lift up the shirt carefully and put the deodorant on afterward . . . again, see #1.)
4.
I got hit by a deer Wednesday night. Yes, that's right. I got hit BY a deer.
I was driving home from small group - in quite a bit of an anxious funk, though I'm pretty sure that had nothing to do with it - when suddenly there was a deer what seemed like 3 inches in front of my at-the-time-being-driven-60 mph van. I slammed on my breaks and missed him by about a millimeter then suddenly felt this huge thud against the rear side of the van. Apparently, Bambi had a friend. Or an offspring. Or, as Joshua is convinced, there was something chasing it to eat it . . . most likely a cheetah.
Since I was less than a mile from home, am a huge coward, and was on a dark and desolate road, I decided not to get out and survey the damage at the scene. Even when I got home, I couldn't tell much in the dark. Yesterday morning, however, I discovered a giant deer-head shaped dent right above the rear wheel-well. Or maybe it was shoulder shaped, I don't know. I'll have to study some deer (and possibly cheetah) anatomy and get back to you.
I'm just glad no one was hurt as I had all three kids in the van with me. Josh screamed, "Mom, watch out!" at the precise moment I saw deer #1, and tonight as we were driving down the same road, he reminded me to watch out for deer. Trust me, the reminder was unnecessary; I was going about 35.
5.
It bugs me that when I was creating labels for my post, I used the phrase "spiritual insight." EVERY time I use that label, I wish that I could change it to "spiritual reflections." I don't mean be so presumptuous as to think that anyone would find my ramblings "insightful," but it's not possible (as far as I can tell) to change a label without going in and re-labeling each post.
And, again . . . see #1.
6.
Lauren's newest phrase: "Whatever." She loves it.
She said it the other day when she lost her train of thought, and my parents and I cracked up. It was hilarious. Now she knows people find it hilarious, so she says it to get a laugh. She actually told me that she kept saying it at small group the other night "so Sarah and Laura would laugh again."
I foresee a class clown.
7.
You should know that it took quite a bit of dedication for me to get this post in tonight. I had to pry myself away from "I Was Bitten" on the Discovery Channel. Or maybe it's Animal Planet. I don't know; I'm new to this whole cable thing. All I know is I am addicted to this show.
It's about people who've been bitten by various deadly animals. Tonight's episode included a grizzly bear attack and an attack by a great white shark. (Lucky for you, I've seen a shark one before.) Other episodes have featured attacks by various types of rattlesnakes, cobras, alligators, mountain lions, venomous spiders . . . all the things I'm sure you want to be thinking about if you read this right before you go to bed.
I seriously love this show, though. If someone created a channel that was nothing but infomercials and near-fatal animal attacks, I'd watch it almost exclusively.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
File under: Odd pickup lines
I was talking to someone in my small group tonight about how it's sometimes hard to decide whether to "accept a friend" on Facebook. You know, sometimes you have NO idea who the person is . . . the name doesn't ring a bell, their profile picture is a pic of their dog, so that's no help, but apparently you have like 27 mutual friends, so you figure you must know the person, right?
So, tonight after having that conversation, I come home and put the kids to bed and get back to work packing get on Facebook. I had a "friend request" from some guy named Dean Scott with the most unexpected message ever:
"Hi! I see you are a Calvinist!! If you are also single or know any Reformed singles, they may be interested in this website...."
I've heard some bad pickup lines in my life, but "Hi! I see you are a Calvinist!!" is definitely a new one.
Plus, I'm not sure where he got the idea that I'm a Calvinist. I've always liked Hobbes just as much.
And, wouldn't everyone who's married be considered a "reformed single?"
(You really should start paying better attention to the labels before reading my posts. I TOLD you this was random.)
So, tonight after having that conversation, I come home and put the kids to bed and
"Hi! I see you are a Calvinist!! If you are also single or know any Reformed singles, they may be interested in this website...."
I've heard some bad pickup lines in my life, but "Hi! I see you are a Calvinist!!" is definitely a new one.
Plus, I'm not sure where he got the idea that I'm a Calvinist. I've always liked Hobbes just as much.
And, wouldn't everyone who's married be considered a "reformed single?"
(You really should start paying better attention to the labels before reading my posts. I TOLD you this was random.)
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Reason #846 I will not be winning Mommy of the Year 2009
(Yes, I know that's a pretty big number considering it's only February. Just keepin' it real.)
#846 - Put out public request for a babysitter on Facebook. I'm sure this will not only preclude me from winning any parenting awards this year, but probably also come back to haunt me when I run for Senate someday:
"It has just come to light that senatorial hopeful Rebecca Ross once exhibited an extreme lack of judgment when she put out a public call asking for anyone she knew (or whom she had ever known . . . or who knew someone she knew . . . or whose name sounded vaguely familiar, so she clicked "accept friend request" . . . or whose name didn't even sound familiar but who had a hot-looking profile photo . . . just kidding on the last one, dear) to babysit her three and four year old children. Can she be trusted to run our government?"
I'll take comfort in knowing that the first 845 reasons would probably have kept me out of the running anyway.
#846 - Put out public request for a babysitter on Facebook. I'm sure this will not only preclude me from winning any parenting awards this year, but probably also come back to haunt me when I run for Senate someday:
"It has just come to light that senatorial hopeful Rebecca Ross once exhibited an extreme lack of judgment when she put out a public call asking for anyone she knew (or whom she had ever known . . . or who knew someone she knew . . . or whose name sounded vaguely familiar, so she clicked "accept friend request" . . . or whose name didn't even sound familiar but who had a hot-looking profile photo . . . just kidding on the last one, dear) to babysit her three and four year old children. Can she be trusted to run our government?"
I'll take comfort in knowing that the first 845 reasons would probably have kept me out of the running anyway.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Isn't Valentine's Day supposed to be about romance?
I don't understand how kids got involved in Valentine's Day at all. Isn't this holiday supposed to be about love of the romantic kind? I mean, I get that we live in a culture where we try to avoid excluding anyone from anything. Ever. But, seriously, what does Valentine's Day have to do with kids?
I know. We handed out Valentine cards when we were in school, too. This ritual, however misguided, is nothing new.
(Note: This was, by the way, before schools created these rules where you must give one to every child or you can't give them out at all. Whatever happened to the hurt feelings and bitterness that were the essence of an elementary school valentine card exchange when I was a kid? That whole Charlie Brown thing wasn't just fiction. And, seriously, if we want to get kids involved in a "romantic" holiday at a young age, we might as well let it be something that will prepare them for what life will be like when actual "romance" is involved. Make everyone give them a card now, and they'll just be in for an ugly rude awakening come high school.)
So, anyway, the big party day at school is Wednesday. I've been planning to take Josh to Walmart and pick out some cards . . . probably Tuesday. On the way home from soccer practice when we should be eating dinner. Because I will have forgotten until then, and that's why God made Taco Bell.
So, here I was lying in bed last night looking through Parenting magazine, and I saw an article about "Valentine's Day Craft Ideas." What follows is one of those ideas. (Don't bother reading the whole thing - just pay attention to the parts I put in red and my own commentary, added free of charge, in blue.)
I know. We handed out Valentine cards when we were in school, too. This ritual, however misguided, is nothing new.
(Note: This was, by the way, before schools created these rules where you must give one to every child or you can't give them out at all. Whatever happened to the hurt feelings and bitterness that were the essence of an elementary school valentine card exchange when I was a kid? That whole Charlie Brown thing wasn't just fiction. And, seriously, if we want to get kids involved in a "romantic" holiday at a young age, we might as well let it be something that will prepare them for what life will be like when actual "romance" is involved. Make everyone give them a card now, and they'll just be in for an ugly rude awakening come high school.)
So, anyway, the big party day at school is Wednesday. I've been planning to take Josh to Walmart and pick out some cards . . . probably Tuesday. On the way home from soccer practice when we should be eating dinner. Because I will have forgotten until then, and that's why God made Taco Bell.
So, here I was lying in bed last night looking through Parenting magazine, and I saw an article about "Valentine's Day Craft Ideas." What follows is one of those ideas. (Don't bother reading the whole thing - just pay attention to the parts I put in red and my own commentary, added free of charge, in blue.)
Hand-painted clay pots and saucers filled with Valentine candy are a sweet treat for your child's teacher, grandparent, friend, or even for mom! Create endless design combinations with just a few simple tools and techniques.
Age: 3 and up (This project is rated VERY EASY to do.) (Yeah, I know a lot of 3 year-olds who can do this.)
What you need (Any craft that involves NINE supplies is not getting filed under "very easy" in my book.)
Age: 3 and up (This project is rated VERY EASY to do.) (Yeah, I know a lot of 3 year-olds who can do this.)
What you need (Any craft that involves NINE supplies is not getting filed under "very easy" in my book.)
- Terra cotta clay pots in various sizes
- acrylic paints: pinks, reds, purples, white
- Valentine stickers
- paint brushes, one small and one medium
- new pencil (Why the heck would it have to be a new pencil?)
- household sponge
- acrylic sealer spray, matte finish (Again, this craft is for a THREE YEAR OLD?!)
- lace (optional)
- raffia and/or ribbon (optional) (I had no idea what raffia was, so I looked it up, and the article says it is like hemp! Dude, a craft for a three year old should not involve pot.)
What you do
1. Paint clay pot in desired color and let dry. Apply a second coat, and if needed (especially with lighter colors), a third coat as well, allowing sufficient drying time in between coats. Paint inside and outside of pot. (This is only step one, and it already would have taken like hours.)
2. Once painted, it's time to decorate! Here are some ideas to make your pot look great:
* To give your pot a polka dot design, use the eraser of a new pencil and dip into desired paint color. Dab once to remove excess and dot onto pot. Each polka dot will need a new application of paint. For smaller dots, use the end of a paintbrush applying with the same method.
* A household sponge can be used to add a contrasting color. Wet the sponge and squeeze out all excess water. Dab into paint then dab off excess onto a piece of paper towel. Use a dabbing motion to sponge on a light coat of contrasting color.
* Stripes can be applied by simply loading a small paintbrush with paint and painting downward. Stripes do not need to be perfect, so don't fret if you "go outside the lines" so to speak. (Thanks for that heads-up. Without it, I may have fretted.)
* Stickers can be used to decorate your pots. Stick over dry paint and press firmly to be sure they adhere.
* You can tie ribbon or raffia into a bow and glue to the front of your pot, or tie around the rim. Hot glue will work better than white glue for adhering ribbon or raffia to the front of the pot.
* Lace can also be used to accent your pot. Glue lace around the rim for a fancy finish.
3. Once decorated, apply a coat or two of acrylic sealer and allow to dry overnight.
4. Fill with various candy and enjoy your creations!
I'd like to note, for the record, that I didn't put the "VERY EASY" at the beginning in all caps myself. It was all-capped already, so apparently whoever wrote this REALLY believes that this is a "VERY EASY" craft. I think she must have been smoking some raffia.
Now, admittedly, I'm not the crafty type. Hot glue guns and me . . . we don't mix. (Well, actually we usually do, and that's what causes the burns.)
So, imagine my horror to learn recently that handing out those little store-bought valentine cards has become passe. Nowadays, moms MAKE things like heart shaped crayons, bookmarks, and apparently painted terra cotta planters filled with candy.
I hate to break it to my kid, but the only thing his mom makes are trips to Walmart.
Don't worry, I still encourage creativity and craftiness in my kids even though I lack them. I will let him choose his own store-bought cards. I'll even let him pick what color he uses to write all the kids' names on them. Heck, I might even bust out and let him tape a lollipop to each one.
But, that's IT! I will not buy card stock or lace or sparkles or hot glue sticks, and I sure as heck won't buy terra cotta planters . . . or pot.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Why I Don't Work from Home
People are often surprised to learn that I am a lawyer. After all, who would give up a hard-earned legal career to stay at home and wipe noses and eat peanut butter and jelly crusts for lunch? A question I ask myself daily.
Of course, the question that usually follows is have I ever thought of working from home?
The following is part of the answer to that question. It is my hope that perhaps some poor, well-intentioned young mom may read this and save herself the trouble of even trying to have a career from home. Some of the reasons are specific to being a lawyer, but most of them can be applied to any profession. Learn from my experience, and don't waste your time.
1.
You cannot make phone calls.
Children are born with a radar that alerts them to the fact that mommy is on the phone. The moment mommy says "hello" or finishes dialing a number, all of your children will begin to scream, cry, and fight with each other so that to the person on the other end of the phone, it sounds not like a lawyer's office, but a very poorly monitored daycare center. Or maybe Abu Ghraib.
You cannot fax things because the fax machine is stuck at the top of a closet behind approximately 26 board games. And fifteen pairs of shoes that your oldest child outgrew and you saved for your younger child but forgot about, so now said younger child's foot has grown past that size, and the shoes don't fit anyone. But, they're perfectly good shoes, so you don't want to toss them. You'll give them to a friend. Someday.
You cannot sit down and use the computer. There are numerous reasons for this. The first is because the sensor that alerts them to mommy's phone use also alerts them every time mommy's butt touches a surface. The surface could be anything - the couch, the computer chair, the potty . . . doesn't matter. Mom sits; alarm sounds.
(Perhaps you say to yourself, "Hmm. If she has time to write this blog, surely she could find time to write something that's actually productive." Seriously, if you think long posts like this get written in one sitting, you clearly are insane don't have three children.)
Another reason you can't get work done on the computer is because your children will have accidentally changed all of your settings while playing DragonTales on the pbskids website. It will take hours to make your computer function again, days to figure out how to make the toolbar be at the top of the screen again instead of the side, and possibly weeks to make your font appear at normal size again.
Even if you did manage to find time to sit at a properly functioning computer without constant interruption by your children, you've forgotten most of the extensive vocabulary you had before you gave birth. Words like "extrapolate" and "juxtapose" have been pushed aside by words like "poop" and "binky." The brain is a muscle, you know; it'll atrophy just like the rest of them. What, it's not a muscle? See, like I said . . .
Let's say, despite your having a snowball's chance in hell, you somehow managed to use the computer for more than 3 consecutive minutes AND remembered how to use the English language beyond a second grade level. Don't think for a second you've outsmarted those little spawn of yours.
You may have typed a document, but you will never be able to print it. Why? Because you will NEVER find paper for the printer. You children will have used all of it printing out 283 copies of "How to Draw Yoda" from starwars.com.
Now, let's put aside all rational thought for a moment and imagine that you did talk some unsuspecting fool into letting you represent them. Your next problem is that you'll never be able to go to court. There are several reasons for this:
1. You will spend as much on a babysitter as you will earn for one measly court appearance.
2. You haven't been to court in so long your suits don't fit anymore. (For some people this is because they have gained weight, and their suits are too small. This concept is foreign to me because gaining weight requires both eating and sitting down, two activities I only vaguely recall from my pre-child years. My suits are all too big.)
3. You'll find only one of your heels because your daughter will have lost the others somewhere in her abyss of dress-up clothes.
Even if you're a more capable person than I (which is not hard to be), and you could somehow make this whole "home office" thing work, you won't actually be allowed to give legal advice anymore because you haven't made it to enough CLE's to maintain your bar license.
This is despite that fact that, while most attorneys dislike attending CLE's (continuing legal education), you view them as a long-awaited vacation and would willingly attend them weekly if possible. An entire day. No kids. Free food. (Well, sort of free . . . technically you paid several hundred dollars for it when you signed up for the course.) But, did I mention no kids? For an entire day?
Another reason you can't give legal advice - even free of charge - is because whenever someone asks you a legal question, it only makes you feel stupid. After five years of spending every waking hour with no one over the age of six, you no longer know the difference between a tort and a tart. You couldn't define consideration if your life depended on it.
If you happen to stumble onto a case that hinges upon knowing in an instant whether a particular transformer is an autobot or a decepticon, you'll be useful. Otherwise, just go make another peanut butter and jelly sandwich and turn on Word Girl.
Maybe you'll learn something.
Of course, the question that usually follows is have I ever thought of working from home?
The following is part of the answer to that question. It is my hope that perhaps some poor, well-intentioned young mom may read this and save herself the trouble of even trying to have a career from home. Some of the reasons are specific to being a lawyer, but most of them can be applied to any profession. Learn from my experience, and don't waste your time.
Eight Reasons You Shouldn't Even Bother Trying to Work from Home
1.
You cannot make phone calls.
Children are born with a radar that alerts them to the fact that mommy is on the phone. The moment mommy says "hello" or finishes dialing a number, all of your children will begin to scream, cry, and fight with each other so that to the person on the other end of the phone, it sounds not like a lawyer's office, but a very poorly monitored daycare center. Or maybe Abu Ghraib.
2.
You cannot fax things because the fax machine is stuck at the top of a closet behind approximately 26 board games. And fifteen pairs of shoes that your oldest child outgrew and you saved for your younger child but forgot about, so now said younger child's foot has grown past that size, and the shoes don't fit anyone. But, they're perfectly good shoes, so you don't want to toss them. You'll give them to a friend. Someday.
3.
You cannot sit down and use the computer. There are numerous reasons for this. The first is because the sensor that alerts them to mommy's phone use also alerts them every time mommy's butt touches a surface. The surface could be anything - the couch, the computer chair, the potty . . . doesn't matter. Mom sits; alarm sounds.
(Perhaps you say to yourself, "Hmm. If she has time to write this blog, surely she could find time to write something that's actually productive." Seriously, if you think long posts like this get written in one sitting, you clearly
Another reason you can't get work done on the computer is because your children will have accidentally changed all of your settings while playing DragonTales on the pbskids website. It will take hours to make your computer function again, days to figure out how to make the toolbar be at the top of the screen again instead of the side, and possibly weeks to make your font appear at normal size again.
4.
Even if you did manage to find time to sit at a properly functioning computer without constant interruption by your children, you've forgotten most of the extensive vocabulary you had before you gave birth. Words like "extrapolate" and "juxtapose" have been pushed aside by words like "poop" and "binky." The brain is a muscle, you know; it'll atrophy just like the rest of them. What, it's not a muscle? See, like I said . . .
5.
Let's say, despite your having a snowball's chance in hell, you somehow managed to use the computer for more than 3 consecutive minutes AND remembered how to use the English language beyond a second grade level. Don't think for a second you've outsmarted those little spawn of yours.
You may have typed a document, but you will never be able to print it. Why? Because you will NEVER find paper for the printer. You children will have used all of it printing out 283 copies of "How to Draw Yoda" from starwars.com.
6.
Now, let's put aside all rational thought for a moment and imagine that you did talk some unsuspecting fool into letting you represent them. Your next problem is that you'll never be able to go to court. There are several reasons for this:
1. You will spend as much on a babysitter as you will earn for one measly court appearance.
2. You haven't been to court in so long your suits don't fit anymore. (For some people this is because they have gained weight, and their suits are too small. This concept is foreign to me because gaining weight requires both eating and sitting down, two activities I only vaguely recall from my pre-child years. My suits are all too big.)
3. You'll find only one of your heels because your daughter will have lost the others somewhere in her abyss of dress-up clothes.
7.
Even if you're a more capable person than I (which is not hard to be), and you could somehow make this whole "home office" thing work, you won't actually be allowed to give legal advice anymore because you haven't made it to enough CLE's to maintain your bar license.
This is despite that fact that, while most attorneys dislike attending CLE's (continuing legal education), you view them as a long-awaited vacation and would willingly attend them weekly if possible. An entire day. No kids. Free food. (Well, sort of free . . . technically you paid several hundred dollars for it when you signed up for the course.) But, did I mention no kids? For an entire day?
8.
Another reason you can't give legal advice - even free of charge - is because whenever someone asks you a legal question, it only makes you feel stupid. After five years of spending every waking hour with no one over the age of six, you no longer know the difference between a tort and a tart. You couldn't define consideration if your life depended on it.
If you happen to stumble onto a case that hinges upon knowing in an instant whether a particular transformer is an autobot or a decepticon, you'll be useful. Otherwise, just go make another peanut butter and jelly sandwich and turn on Word Girl.
Maybe you'll learn something.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Conversations with Lauren
1. In the car saying prayers while driving Joshua to school in the rain: "Dear God, thank you for the trees and the rain and the swiper shields." (That would be the windshield wipers.)
2. "Mommy, I'm going to sing you a Christmas song." "Okay, which one?" "Umm, Free Me Kings!" (That would be "We Three Kings.") The funny thing about this one is that she started singing nonsensical sounds to the proper tune, clearly knowing absolutely none of the words except "king," and after she got at least two-thirds of the way through, she said, "Mommy, I don't know this song." Ya think?
3. Trying distract Lauren from her fussing as I cooked supper yesterday, and she was wanting to be held:
Me: When you grow up are you going to be a mommy and cook supper for your family?
Lauren: NO!! I'm gonna be a ballerina, remember?
Me: Oh yeah. Well, do you think you'll also cook dinner sometimes?
Lauren: Umm, yes. (voice goes up an excited notch or two now as she has yet another of her brilliant ideas) I will be a Ballerina Cooker Mommy!!
This last one struck me the most funny because I am an annoyingly literal person. When I read the book, "Time for Bed," (a family favorite, btw) I can't stand to read one chapter as it is written. It goes, "Time for bed, little sheep, little sheep. The whole wide world is going to sleep."
That's just not true. The whole wide world is not going to sleep. Much of it is just waking up or in the middle of their day. So, until I had a child who could read, I always said instead, "Much of the world is going to sleep."
I know. I must be so much fun to live with.
Anyway, I hope she doesn't grow up to be a ballerina cooker mommy. I'm pretty sure it's illegal and wrong.
2. "Mommy, I'm going to sing you a Christmas song." "Okay, which one?" "Umm, Free Me Kings!" (That would be "We Three Kings.") The funny thing about this one is that she started singing nonsensical sounds to the proper tune, clearly knowing absolutely none of the words except "king," and after she got at least two-thirds of the way through, she said, "Mommy, I don't know this song." Ya think?
3. Trying distract Lauren from her fussing as I cooked supper yesterday, and she was wanting to be held:
Me: When you grow up are you going to be a mommy and cook supper for your family?
Lauren: NO!! I'm gonna be a ballerina, remember?
Me: Oh yeah. Well, do you think you'll also cook dinner sometimes?
Lauren: Umm, yes. (voice goes up an excited notch or two now as she has yet another of her brilliant ideas) I will be a Ballerina Cooker Mommy!!
This last one struck me the most funny because I am an annoyingly literal person. When I read the book, "Time for Bed," (a family favorite, btw) I can't stand to read one chapter as it is written. It goes, "Time for bed, little sheep, little sheep. The whole wide world is going to sleep."
That's just not true. The whole wide world is not going to sleep. Much of it is just waking up or in the middle of their day. So, until I had a child who could read, I always said instead, "Much of the world is going to sleep."
I know. I must be so much fun to live with.
Anyway, I hope she doesn't grow up to be a ballerina cooker mommy. I'm pretty sure it's illegal and wrong.
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