Most Embarassing Post. Ever.

This post proves that I am in serious need of mental help and or heavy prescription drugs. When they come and take me away, you will all know why. Enjoy.

On the second Tuesday of every other month this ludicrously annoying fellow my kids have dubbed "the bug man" comes to collect yet another $75 thus reminding me of my complete gullibility and total suckerness. Each time this blessed day rolls around I watch as Jamie inspects every inch of every room of my home, yard and garage included, for any sign of whatever pest he happens to be "into today." What this means to you, faithful reader, is that every second Monday of every other month I break my neck in the attempt to scrub, sanitize, and de-junk this pit in the hopes of fooling an obnoxious man I can not stand at all into thinking we aren't the completely disgusting neanderthals I rediscover we really are every single time. It also means that should you ever decide to pop in on me unannounced, this Tuesday is the day to do it as my house will be clean and I will have actually showered and put on something other than my over-sized men's pajama pants.

I started pretty early this morning, and I must say I was doing quite well despite the laryngitis and uncomfortable drug side effects I've been so lucky to enjoy as of late. I de-cluttered, rearranged, scrubbed, cleaned out the sofa cushions, and actually moved furniture around to vacuum. By 1pm I'd made such a significant dent in what I needed to accomplish to shut the voices up...feel comfortable with a stranger poking around all my secret hidey places...have a reasonably clean home, that I started to get excited.

Now, this never ends well for me. You think I'd learn. When I bite off more than I can chew this happens. And sometimes this. And even... sigh... this. Unfortunately, today was no exception.

I have been looking at my hardwood floors for months now trying to figure out what went so horribly wrong. Being as this is the first part of my house you see upon entering, I try pretty hard to keep them up. Not that you can tell. I have mopped and polished them religiously for 3 years now, yet they still look dingy and gray and covered in a cloudy film. After some time on the Internet, I discovered my problem (OrangeGlo sucks)and it's ridiculously strenuous solution (saturating the wood in ammonia and water and then scrubbing with all your might one teeny square inch at a time). The crazy in me thought it was a splendid idea to work barefoot, no gloves, no mask, closed windows, face first in ammonia scrubbing with all my might. I scoured every inch, moved every single thing on the floor to be sure I didn't skimp anywhere. I even moved our massive Christmas tree, skirt, and all the gifts I had managed to wrap earlier today.

After 4 straight hours, my wood floors were literally gleaming, smooth, beautiful. I stood there for a couple minutes admiring my handiwork. Then it hit me. I was soaking wet, drenched in ammonia from head to toe. My throat was on fire. My hands, arms, back and neck were screaming in agony. I noticed layers of skin missing from my knees and elbows. I stood there in awe of my utter stupidity contemplating what sort of mess I would make if I walked through the house dripping ammonia and how long it would take me to clean it all up. It dawned on me that no one was around. No kids anywhere to be seen. Dave was conspicuously missing. After the work I'd done today why should I trudge up stairs throughout the whole house and back down again. I could just shuck my clothes right into the washer and then run up the stairs to my shower before anyone was the wiser.

I should just stop here. You all know what's coming.

I stripped completely and scooped up all the dirty linens I'd used on the floor to put in the washer. I stood there completely naked as I watched the washer fill and added the soap. I walked completely naked through the kitchen, the living room and was stopped completely naked in front of the picture window admiring my pretty floors one last time when a very shocked Dave standing at the bottom of the stairs said... "um.. you know the pizza guy just pulled into the driveway, right"? Wait. He ordered pizza? I was literally a deer in headlights for a minute. A very naked deer. They were shining straight in my face. I hadn't even noticed for the beautimous gleam of my shiny wood floors.

I stood there for a minute not knowing where to go. Couldn't go upstairs, I'd have to pass in front of the door. Couldn't go through the kitchen to the laundry room. I'd have to pass the picture windows again. Certainly couldn't stay there. I finally bolted back behind the love seat covering...well...not very much.. with my hands. To add insult to injury, as I was cowering (desperately trying to convince myself that the chuckling pizza guy didn't really see anything, my dear son shows up out of nowhere and hollers "Hey Mom, why are you nekkid back there" insuring the pizza guy had one more grin at my expense. There was nothing I could do. There was nowhere I could go, so I stood there dripping on the floor all red knees, elbows

and cheeks.

Surprisingly enough...

we are NOT the most annoying people at church. Nope, apparently we're just amateurs. There's a whole slue of things we've never even considered before. Who knew? Just in case you aspire to become the single most annoying family ever on the face of the earth, I've written a guide for you. I call it 12 Steps to Hell (cuz that's where everyone else will either think they are or will wish to be when you show up.)



1. Come in late making sure to slam your chair back into the knees of the person behind you.

2. Sit in the middle of the row and then get up a million times in less than 15 minutes.

3. Read your books out loud drowning out the speakers.

4. Sing the hymns in an obnoxious mocking voice but not on the lyrics. It's more fun to make up your own.

5. Take a big handful of the sacrament bread.

6. Make a piercing siren sound. Do it over and over.

7. Repeatedly knock items from the hands of others. Don't apologize or help them retrieve them.

8. Feed each other grapes out of the mouths of toys. Not just any toys, mind you. They must be little gross-looking monster toys that also roar, bite people, and make out with one another. Use loud smacky sounds.

9. Smear string cheese all over the place. I mean ALL over the place. Make sure to smear it on the people sitting near you.

10. Have a tickle fight with your small children. Give them plenty of zerbies so they'll scream.

11. Rub the legs of women you've never met. Be sure you laugh about how funny that is. It isn't creepy enough unless you do that.

12. Pull down each others' pants so we can all see who it is that needs a diaper change. Wait a good long time before you decide to actually change it.

So there you have it, folks. Stick to my guidelines, and I can guarantee you'll always have a pew to yourself.

Re-write of my lost formerly funny, but now just a shadow of it's former entertaining self and actually so bad you should just skip it post.

This is all past tense now, and fuzzy around the edges. I did promise to tell it again though, so here it is as well as I can do. If I've learned anything, it's always save your work in another program. The rewrite is never as good as the original.

While my husband is otherwise distracted I am going to complain a bit. Know that I wouldn't do this if he wasn't enjoying a week away from the family all expense paid... in SAN FRANCISCO no less, city of my heart, where I long to be young and free living with wild abandon eating sushi and listening to free-form jazz.... /sigh...

I love my husband dearly. We're a great match. I can talk to him, and he listens. He has been known to actually talk back as well and tries hard not to "fix" my problems. He's ridiculously smart. And cute. And funny. And he does all the cooking. And he helps put the kids to bed. And he hates sports as much if not more than I do. And he doesn't complain when I get computer viruses that he has to fix. And he fixes all the viruses my family gets (which is a lot guys, seriously. What DO you look at?) And he buys the expensive chocolates. And he has cute non-bending thumbs. And he doesn't complain when I wreck the car. Or laugh at me for it...much.

How lucky am I? I know, I know. Hate on.

He does all these things and more, but there is one thing he struggles with- one thing he hates so much there are no words. He'd rather walk on hot coals, rip out his fingernails, go to a.../gulp...chick flick than do any form of yard work.

Dave hates outside chores with the fiery passion of a thousand white-hot suns. He gets absolutely no enjoyment or satisfaction from it at all. There's no sense of accomplishment. No pride in a job well done. In fact, I don't think he'd do it at all if we didn't live in an area where they come measure your grass and fine you if it breaks code. We'd be the scary house on the block. All the little kids would dare each other to knock on the door. Hmmm. There's a thought.

Anyway, it doesn't matter what type of work it is whether it be mowing, weeding, edging...etc. He's an equal opportunity hater. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. We usually pay someone to take care of this for him, (I mean when would he have time to ever make me this if he was outside mowing down grass all the time? A girl guy must have priorities,right)? but we had to fire our lawn guy and hire someone else. When the replacement (his dear brother) said mow yer own lawn, dude changed his line of work, Dave and I had to pick up the slack.

Of course this means that weeks will go by and nothing will get done. At all. When it gets to the point where I'm starting to feel menaced by the neighbor's weed whacker I will inevitably break down, pull out the ole flowered gloves and prepare to get dirty. Why not, right? Someone's gotta do it.

There was a ton to do. There always is since the ex-lawn guy decided to seed all our beds with grass. More of it grows in the flower beds than in our actual lawn now, and it's a constant battle. This time around was especially difficult for me, and after hours of back-breaking, hoe-breaking, trimmer-breaking not to mention fingernail-breaking work in the blazing hot sun, I did what I never ever ever do. I cheated and took the easier way out. I raked up all the mess into a pile and carted it to the back of our property line to toss into the woods (rather than bagging it all nicely) all the while reminding myself of the above list of said husband's attributes through gritted teeth.

You'd think the story was over, right? Where's the crazy in a little yard work, you say? Well, as I was finishing up with the last load I noticed that some of the weeds I'd tossed into the woods had hung in a couple of bushes and some had fallen into big lumpy piles on the ground. How unsightly! Well we can't have that, can we? Heavens no. What would Martha think? Madame Brilliant here decides to shove her arms right into the mess to make sure everything was nicely distributed. I even remember thinking to myself as I felt my arms brush up against a massive bush how horrible it would be if it was poisonous, and maybe I should go wash off just to be sure. They say if you wash it off quickly you'll be okay. Did I listen to my own voice of reason? Do you read my blog? I chose to wait not 1 minute, not 5 or ten, but 45 minutes after having first suspected I'd touched the stuff.

It was a couple of days later before I first noticed the itch. Just a small spot really on the underside of my forearm. I thought it was a couple of mosquito bites at first, that is until it began to get bigger. And bigger. And itchier and itchier until there was poison covering the whole of my under forearm from the wrist to the elbow. I also managed to get it on my bicep, down my right side, on my hip and into the corner of my right eye. Ever wanted to jab your own eye out? Never thought I would either.

I set out on a mission to find relief. I tried everything from swallowing herbal supplements and tons of Benadryl to covering myself in oatmeal, Calamine, rubbing alcohol, and peroxide. I used a whole tube of really expensive local remedy. I stood in the tub and dumped half a bottle of bleach on myself. You don't even want to know about the screwdriver. Suffice it to say NOTHING WORKS. Before church on Sunday I covered myself in bandages so no one would freak out when they saw the mess. There were so many that the kid collecting fast offerings saw it and asked me how I had broken my arm. I've done that. Trust me poison ivy is worse. Folks, I have descended into the depths of hell. I can't begin to tell you the extent of my suffering. It doesn't end. Every day there is yet another new spot of torment and I try yet another pointless method.

What's the moral of the story, boys and girls? There isn't one really. Just know, Dave. You have to come home one day. Until then, dear, I'll be waiting.

Afterword--I have permanent scarring on my arm. It's a constant reminder to me of my idiocy.

Blog Angst

A couple of weeks ago I spent a lot of time writing out a post for you, and it was funny, man. I was so proud of it. I've had a rash of hilarity happen to me lately, and I thought that this particular post would start it all off just right. I had been working it up for about a week, and on Sunday it was all nice and shiny and ready to publish. Because it strongly featured me poking great fun at my husband, I left it up him to choose whether or not it was published. Upon getting his ok (he's a great sport), I hit save and publish. Only it didn't. Well, what actually published was the first paragraph only. Everything else magically disappeared. No save either. It was gone. 45 minutes of me frantically trying to find this work was for nothing. Several hours of my brilliant husband's brilliant computer expertise was also for nothing. I have since been too irritated over it to write up my other ideas. Sorry about that. When it stops chapping my hide I'll attempt a rewrite and y'all can resume laughing at my misfortunes. In the meantime, beware. The Cosmic Thumb strikes through blogger.

Who knew?

Ever get a tune stuck in your head? I recommend extreme violence.

Summer is almost over now, and soon to follow it is the ever-beloved ice cream man. As much as I hate being hot and sweaty (well, of course y'all know a Southern girl doesn't actually sweat... we glisten, but bear with me here I'm telling a story) there's just nothing like that tinny out of tune warble that only comes at this time of year to get your heart pumping and your mouth watering especially on those smothering wet blanket no breeze make you want to smack the devil dog days of summer.

I loathe the ice cream man. Blasted evil ice cream man; harbinger of summer, bearer of all that yummy cold creaminess, pied piper to all things child-like and fun. I would wring his neck with the cord to his crappy music box if he'd only stay still long enough. There I said it. When you can pick your jaw up off the floor, feel free to read ahead. I'll tell you why.

It started when we lived in Murfreesboro. It was the first time my children really conceived of what that weird truck they kept seeing was, when the correct synapses snapped together and the lights went on in their tiny heads. A man driving around in a brightly colored truck blasting kid music and giving out ice cream? Oh life is good when you're a kid. The only problem after that epiphany was keeping enough cash available for just in case said miracle man were to come driving by our home. Well, that and the waiting.....and waiting......and waiting..........

I'll never forget that last spring we lived out there. My kids heard the music coming often. We lived in a popular area and heard it daily, but we kept missing it. This one particular day the truck was so close but not quite up to our street. Seeing their chance, my little chickens ran inside to plead with me please mama please mama oh please he's almost here. I hurriedly grabbed the wallet and we ran out to wait. It was such a sweet time watching them debate over all the things they might find in that truck and what they might choose for themselves. They romped around in anticipatory bliss. I relished that enthusiasm and found myself starting to muse along with them.

Then there he was in all his glory, coming up at the corner, wailing canned joy out of the speakers on the rooftop while my ecstatic children whooped and cheered. The moment of truth had finally arrived. A month of waiting was about to pay off... that is until he turned the opposite direction driving away from my broken-hearted children and out of the neighborhood. Words can't describe the sorrow of that day.

This was the beginning.

For the next two years, my kids hoped for the elusive ice cream man. They ran out often.. sat in the grass watching day after day. After moving here where there are many more children I thought for sure this dream of theirs would finally be fulfilled. For a time he would just appear out of nowhere every few days...right in the middle of dinner. We'd be halfway through the mashed potatoes when that little tinkle would sound. I would have let them out regardless (I'm not totally heartless) but he always drove by so fast we had no prayer of ever getting out there in time. We know the back of that truck by heart now. Weeks of this ensued. I thought since no one else on our street ever let their kids out during dinner that the guy would get a clue and switch it up. He did finally. Yep. Changed it to lunch time instead. Then he just stopped coming altogether.

I'd thought my kids had mostly moved on from this unrequited desire until just recently. We were standing in the doorway when that old familiar tune that we hear even in our sleep(Frere Jacques) that we've heard so many times before showed up out of nowhere. (Seriously, Clara and I both hear that song even when it's not there, especially during dinner.) We all just knew it was meant to be. For once I had cash to give them. It was exactly our family's designated snack time. It was the last day of summer before school. The stars were aligned. My kids whooped with joy in the front yard listening as that music drew ever closer... and closer...and closer and passed our street by with nary a glance. Twice. If I could have conceivably caught up with him, I'd have gotten the baby up, thrown them all in the car, hunted him down with my Mama Bear SUV and run his sorry butt over. Instead I watched my faithful kids sit in the sweltering sun grasping their tattered bills for hours for hours hoping he'd come back before finally giving up and coming in for dinner. My son Sam said the blessing that night. I thought my heart would never recover when I heard him so sweetly pray for the ice cream man to safely come to our house. Then, and almost every prayer since.

Every day thereafter as my kids have sat on that porch just waiting; I have searched the Internet, the phone books, and every resource I can find on where to find a phone number or store front or some way of getting one to drive out here at a designated time to no avail. I have also spent more time on my knees by myself praying for the ice cream man to come and then just begging for a little boy's prayer to be answered.

Today it was. Sam never doubted. And let me tell you all is right with the world.

It’s a bird... it’s a plane...

Those of you who know my family well know what a struggle I've had with my now 5-year-old son, Sam. I mean this kid really puts me through the ringer. I could dedicate a whole site just to him and his exploits and document the daily struggle I face to refrain from throwing him out the window teach him to be a productive member of society. This summer has been particularly difficult. I have found myself really having to focus on remembering what a real treasure he really and truly is. (I had to look especially hard today.)

Thus we come to today's post.

This was one I wrote on my prior blog a couple of years ago. Sam was 3 at the time. Those of you who've read it will live through it again I'm sure. For those of you who haven't, here you go...another reason why I love my ridiculously difficult son.

It's a bird... it's a plane...
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

So my little boy Sam (a.k.a Destructo Boy, the Human Cyclone, Terror-of-the-Southern-Lands-and-all-things-Poultry) has turned over a new leaf. Seemingly. I'm not sure I truly believe it yet. Those of you familiar with the Era-of-the-Eggs can understand my reservations, I'm sure.

We've survived the Egg Era, Pirate Hell, and the "Call me Pablo, Tyrone" phase. Oompa loompas have stopped screeching parenting insults my way, and Lightning McQueen has stopped racing across my pretty leather furniture. No more noodle towers, Cheerio explosions, blackberry tracks, bleach stains, flour showers, and surprisingly, 12-packs of toilet paper last more than an hour.

This has all been replaced, we think. And with what? Cue the trumpet fanfare...now the drum roll...cap it with a cymbal clash... it's SUPERSAM TO THE RESCUE!!! Can it be? Is it true? Has my little deviant finally decided to renounce his terroristic tendencies in favor of....gulp.....the GOOD OF MANKIND?

Yes, ladies and gents. I wake every morning to find he's already up and dressed in his super suit. He zooms around the house righting wrongs, protecting the innocent. His muscles flex as he lifts heavy fallen objects. He leaps tall pillows in a single bound, all the while his theme music is playing over and over on the DVD player.

What, ladies and gentleman, would I do without this little man of steel? Why just today I was moping around after a long restless night nursing bruised feelings, when in flies Super Sam. He takes a long look at me, rips off his secret identity (it's his favorite firetruck shirt and some glasses with the lenses poked out. He won't let me wash it right now...) and while kissing me on the cheek whispers " but I love you, Mom."

What can I say... my hero.

Lesson of the day

Now class pay attention. This may be on the final. Now repeat after me.

Gorilla glue is not the same as crazy glue.

Gorilla glue will bond anything to anything else.

Permanently.

As in forever.

Should you not heed this lesson, be forewarned.

Ice will not freeze it off. Peanut butter will only make a mess. Even exacto knives will do nothing but cause you pain.

No, boys and girls, gorilla glue is forever.

Your only hope is that a kind loving husband will stifle his laughter long enough to tear apart the bottle rather than ripping the flesh from the bone. If not, you could always follow your son's suggestion to burn it off or just hack off the whole finger with a sword.

Pay absolutely no attention to the full inch of missing skin.

Class dismissed.

Need a good laugh?

Yesterday I learned a very valuable lesson. Here it is.




Heavy narcotic pain killers and trips to the salon DO NOT MIX.

Now check this out.


Notice the resemblance?


Next time I shall listen to my husband and just cancel the appointment.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Today I met the future me. Or at least where I fear I might be headed.

Maybe not. Currently, I'm a girl. But if the future me could be a slightly crazy vacuum cleaner repairman then I definitely met the future me. It was so weird, y'all. Like looking in a mirror. A really really crotchety old crazy mirror.

It started with my sis-in-law's cleaning routine. We're hosting a Family Reunion between us in July, and after hearing the lengths she's going to prepare her home for our company I was shamed into doing a bit more than I might have. (Not by her, y'all she's a peach. I impose this on myself.) Now I am a pretty decent housekeeper for the most part, but this chick is insane amazing. Seriously, I don't know how she does it. I would have to sandblast my walls......

hmm....I may have to consider...

Anyhow, this led me to finally get at steaming the kid remnants out of my carpets. Been meaning to for a while (this baby is quite the spitter) but I kept finding more important interesting things to do instead. As I was dragging that thing across yet another bitty-boy yuck stain, I heard this really unhealthy sound issuing from the steamer. I have learned (finally) not to ignore weird sounds in my house (i.e. crunching in the disposal, gurgling in the wash, the splatting of raw eggs from the 2nd floor...) so I turned it off and quite handily unscrewed every screw I could find. Amidst all the vacuum guts I found the culprit... one teeny partially ripped belt thingy. I figured I could handle that one little problem without resorting to calling the Man to come fix it. So I packed up the punks, and off we went in search of parts.

Apparently my steamer is a popular variety, because I found it in every single place I looked today. However, not a one of those places carried this particular belt. They carried all the belts for every other stupid machine on the planet but not mine oh no not mine of course they wouldn't have mine because I chose mine and Cosmic Thumb forbid I get one that will live for at least one whole stinkin year before it breaks just one whole stinkin year before I have to bust it apart, do major surgery and then search high and low for hours on end in the hopes of getting that freakin carpet looking more like carpet and less like the Manson family came to dinner but I digress.

(Bring Mommy her happy pills, please dear. No the little pink ones...thank you.)

Ahem.

As I was saying, it was proving a more difficult challenge than I at first believed, so I did the only other thing I could think of. I called my mommy. We can thank her now for finding my future male self, the man of my heart to which I will aspire NOT to emulate from this day forward.

He was in this little smelly vacuum repair shop. (Smelly yes, but with surprisingly clean carpet I must say.) I drug my exhausted, hot, starving, obnoxious little kids in the door and explained my dilemma to him. He knew exactly which model I had, what I had broken, and how I should fix it. He had the part in hand moments later with advice on making it work better, and I gratefully pulled out my debit card to pay him and start the long drive back home.

Here's where it starts to get weird. He got this look on his face and denied my card. Wouldn't even look at it. Mumbled something under his breath about what kind of people use a card for less than $10, but about jumped across the counter at me when he saw my checkbook. I thought he was gonna hit me at first, but instead he practically begged me to write him one. I took another step back and proceeded to do so. He just stared at it for a minute. When I asked if he needed my license he said (and I quote) "No thanks, I just bought mine. They say it's good for 5 whole years". Startled, I replied "well it's probably a better picture than this one is anyway." I'm sure it is, he says.

This should have been a clue about how the next 45 minutes of my life were about to proceed. Add to it the constant whining sound issuing from the mouth of my particular 5-yr-old brat and you can see how I might start to resemble this guy way sooner than I like to consider.

After taking my check, he gets close to my face and says "I'm in a 5-year lawsuit with a woman who wrote me a bad check for $497.53. I assured him I could swing $8.95 plus tax, but he wasn't satisfied until I'd heard all about the case and what all he'd like to do to the judge in the meantime. Sounds normal, right? Cautious, right? That's because you didn't have to hear what he wanted to do to that judge.

This was only the beginning of my time with him. I soon found myself regaled with tales of women who couldn't work their vacuums. Women who tried to vacuum stupid things... one who repeatedly returned her vacuum, sure it was always broken because the bags were soooo small, and she wanted her money back. They were filling up way too fast. (I thought to reassure him by mentioning it must have been an excellent-working machine. His reply to her was "you must have a really filthy house".)

Long story short.

It got a whole lot worse. So much so, that I can't begin to put it into words, but crazy was leaking out all over the place. I began to inch myself backwards to the door grabbing my kids by the arms when he mentioned that I had 3 kids and that it was enough, because he already had 4.

There just comes a point that even I can recognize some people just ain't right. Be warned, fair readers (at least those of you who actually comment once in a while instead of just.../gulp.. lurk).

Mirrors never lie.

I've heard that you miss me.

How sweet is that?

I know I haven't been writing. Believe me I've wanted to, but the purpose of this blog was to give me a certain type of outlet--a place to write out my experiences to hopefully find the humor in some of the more painful ones. Lately my life has contained more pain than humor, and I've struggled to poke fun at any of it.

They say that what doesn't kill you is supposed to make you stronger. I'm starting to think that whatever doesn't kill you just makes you wish you were dead. We've had such a rash of stuff gone wrong lately: work problems, large unexpected expenses, serious illness and death in the family. Speaking of family, our extended family on both sides has really gone through the ringer as well. We feel their pain like it was our own and struggle with our utter impotence at helping them through it. It's been quite an emotional roller coaster, and I'm getting a little queasy here. Someone seriously needs to let me off this crazy ride before I need one of those special little bags.

Through it all I have been trying to find some perspective, to learn whatever lesson it is that just won't sink into my rock hard skull so I can move on to happier times. It ain't been easy, but I'm chuggin' along. While joy is somewhat blunted and humor is scarce, I have managed to scrape up a few smiles here and there.

Here's my latest...

I had run to my computer for a few minutes leaving the baby with Clara and Sam in the family room. While I was paying a few bills, I kept hearing this really weird sound coming from the living room. Sam is notorious for making the most obnoxious noises ever, so I just brushed it off as 5-yr-old nonsense and finished up. When I returned to fetch the baby, this is what I found.



Of course as soon as I put the camera on him he decides he's done, but what 8 month old teaches himself to play the kazoo?

Mine.