Wednesday, April 25, 2012
I discuss it with my two cohorts, none of which took me up on the invitation to come and take a whack at stuffing this castle as tall as I am, into a teensy little plate size bag! Thank you very little!(kidding...Alex and Tracie, I wouldn't want to attempt this if I did not have to myself!) So I have calmed down enough to take another whack at it, so to speak. This time, it untwists under my armpit. I grunt and throw the thing in the floor. Where of coure it pops back up to perfect castle-i-ness just to snub me. ARGH! So the next time I go in with the determination that I am smarter than this little punk castle, I will defeat it!
P.S. When I did open the matching purple bag to shove the castle inside, there were the directions! The set up and take down directions! Who would've thought it?
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
I am going to share a story with you from about five and a half years ago, and how it corresponds to Friday.
My husband and I had not conceived and birthed our youngest daughter yet. We had been out on the town and decided food was a fabulous idea. We stopped at the local Truck Stop for breakfast in the wee hours of the morning. I did not know just how 'fabulous' our breakfast was going to be. So we are contemplating what to order, and in walks a very tall, very beautiful woman. She sits down just over from us. She had very prominent, strong features. She ordered coffee. She appeared to be waiting on someone. She anxiously kept looking at the door. I had been sweating and dancing all night, so most of my makeup had worn off. But not this lady, she was flawless, beautiful. Until my nieve little self put two and two together. She raised her foot up to remove her shoe, and gasp, it was the biggest foot I have ever seen. My husband is watching my reaction, as the realization dawns on me that it is actually a man sitting over from us. Albeit, one that is dressed as a woman. A fabulous woman. So cool! So we proceed to order and eat our breakfast. The woman is still sitting alone, examining everyone in the restaurant. She keeps anxiously looking at the door. She does not order anything. I find myself wondering if she has been stood up. I feel bad for her. My husband excuses himself to go to the restroom first , before we pay the bill and leave. While he is gone, the woman goes to the restroom. I am wondering if she went to the mens or womens. When the hubbie returns, I ask him, and he says he was the only one in the mens restroom. OK. I found myself experiencing an odd sense of foreboding. I try to wait a little bit longer before I go to the restroom, but alas, I cannot wait any more.
My husband tells me I am being silly. I go to the restroom, and the door to the first stall is open. WIDE OPEN. I did not see feet. I open the door the rest of the way, and turn into the stall. Oh, excuse me! I am so sorry! Close stall door, and go into next stall. Sit down, hurry up, pee, keep legs together, oh dear what if she, I mean he has a mirror on his shoe, like in that article my mother in law just sent me in my email last week. Do not think about what you just saw, block it out, maintain composure, and hurry and do what you need to do, and get out of here. Hurry up, pull up pants, exit stall, wash hands, grab paper towel, and try not to run back to our table. I told my husband I am ready to go now. Right now. He asked what was wrong, I advised him I would tell him in the safety of our car.
When we are safely locked in our car, I explain to my husband what happened in the restroom. I feel like I have just been visually assaulted. Ok so no one goes to poop, and leaves the stall door wide open. I do not care if you are a man, woman, child, or elderly person, no one wants to broadcast their business. Well, I apparently had the bad fortune to come across an exhibitionist sorely in need of attention. So I explain to my husband how as I rounded the corner into the stall, the woman had her legs spread wide, on either side of the toilet, dress around her waist, and had man dangley parts, dangling away on full display. She/he just stared at me. No yelp, no request to close the door, no excuse me, just sizing me up. I do not know what that meant, except it was most definitely a cry for attention. So the whole time I was going, I kept referring to that darned article my MIL had sent me the week before, bathroom safety. How people could have mirrors or video cameras on their shoes and could film you, and to always keep your pants as far up as you could, and to keep your legs together. I was still tipsy, a little scared, had trouble breathing, and was just trying to concentrate on hurrying up. If this person was that intent on being seen, who knows what else she might try. You cannot be too careful.
I am not a prejudiced person. I love everybody. I was actually a little scared. This person stood a good 6' 6" tall in heels, and since I am only 5' 4", way bigger than me. I was embarassed, shocked, and definitely intimidated. I never had any desire to see any other man bits, besides my dear old hubbies, in my lifetime. I was subjected to something akin to a flasher, only pooping, groaning, and dressed like a woman.
So now you know the story. Back to the salon. So when I walked into the nail salon, what to my wondering eye should appear? The male hairdresser at the first station turns around and makes eye contact, and it was he/she. The very same she/he that I had encountered that dark night in the truck stop. I knew that he remembered me. Just the way he kept looking at me. Just the way I will never forget what was forced upon me. I was a little uncomfortable, but I acted as I normally would. Being my talkative, chipper self. I knew it was he, because he had a very distinct, unforgettable face. He had some obvious work done, cheekbones, forehead, and who knows what else. You know that man who has had multiple surgeries to look like a tiger? Those kind of cheekbones, and that kind of work. He was unmistakable, as a man or a woman.
So as I got my nails done, I learned his name. I also learned that he had only been working there approximately six months. He walked by the nail station several times, and each time I was engaged in casual conversation with the sweet nail lady. The nail lady and I had a good time conversating and laughing, while she made my hands beautiful!
I still remember the feeling of pity that I had for this individual. What could have happened in his life to make him feel the need to do things like what he had done in the truck stop? I can only hope that he now has someone in his life that fullfills his need for the attention he was so deserately craving. And just like that, I forgave him, smiled at him, and walked out of the salon.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
So I went through several more times of washing and rewashing dishes after inspection(and many episodes of griping about her under my breath). Finally I got it right. I scrubbed and scrubbed and made every dish so clean that it would squeak when you rubbed. The value of having clean dishes was ingrained into me, over years of doing the dishes. I later found out my mother detested doing dishes. That had been her chore growing up in my Nana's house. Who knew? So that became my daily chore. Doing the dishes.
After college, I moved back home for six months. My chore was again, the dishes. My mother told me that I could do pretty much whatever I wanted, but the dishes had to be clean before I left the house. This did not sit too well with me, because I had been independent for four years, and had that independent cockiness one gets when they leave the nest. So as you can imagine, we had many go rounds about the dishes. Eventually, I moved back out on my own. I would do or not do my own daggone dishes when and if I felt like it!
So like all young adults, when I struck out on my own, I rebelled. The best way I knew how. I did NOT do the dishes. Oh every now and again, I would do them, or guilt or gross out one of my girlfriends into doing them. Some were so gross, they had to be thrown away, as my former roomates can attest. I do not belong in a kitchen. I burn things, have come very close to blowing up the whole house, or killing the houses occupants several times. Dishes are the thing I do best in the kitchen.
So as I have grown up, I have found myself to be more and more like my mother, in almost every way, including dish washing. When my oldest stepdaughter attained the magical age of dish washing worthiness, I too passed down this sacred art. My mother's way, her mother's way of doing dishes. She too failed at first, but after practice, she too mastered the art of squeaky clean enough. I too turned into, literally, the evil stepmother. I so felt like my mother when I had to make her rewash the dishes for the first time. Thanks Mom! She is currently in her rebellious dish phase, being almost twenty.
Now every house I have lived in, save one, has had a dishwasher. I prefer not to use them. I prefer my mother's method. I always felt, as did my dear old mom, that the dishwasher just did not get the dishes clean enough. Call it passed down OCD'ed-ness, or whatever you want, but it remains just the same. As I have gotten older, I look back fondly on times my mother and I, or my Nana and I, or my father and I have done the dishes together. It was a right of passage, a form of family bonding, a time to chat, laugh and share between just the two people at the sink. I cherish those times now, as well as the art of dish washing, that my mother passed down to me, because she is no longer with us. It may seem silly to some to cherish such seemingly strange memories, but coming from a long line of working moms who chose to become stay at home mothers, I do. the women in my family were always trying to feed you something. They always wanted to take care of their families, and filling your belly was a must. The women in my family have always been the kind to take great care of their families, and everybody else's too. On squeaky clean plates of course.
Maybe the reason for squeaky clean dishes, was because my grandmother and mother were ALWAYS feeding people. Lots of people. Our family, extended family, my friends, my brother's friends, birthday parties, wedding anniversary parties, and most importantly holidays. My Nana's and later on my mother's houses were the gathering places for holidays. The big, loud family celebrations where everybody, including friends, was welcome. The more the merrier. The more people that came, the more dishes that were needed. For shame, if anyone spotted a leftover food spot on a plate, cup, or in a saucer! That would mean that the owner of the offending dirty dish was not good at her duties as a stay at home wife and mother. The pride of these strong wonderful women comes from doing an excellent job of taking care of their children, spouses, and homes(which includes dishes). A dirty dish? In this house??? Never!
So I find myself frequently, while standing at the sink washing dishes, thinking of all of the fond memories I have of those long ago times at the sink with my family. I have learned a lot, while doing dishes at various family sinks. Sometimes, a lot more than I ever cared to know! Doesn't everybody else's families sneak into the kitchen to share juicy little tidbits of gossip, where they think no one else can hear? (OMG..did you see all the food that was stuck on her dishes???) Away from the rest of the family? Yeah, like I said, I learned a lot. I would not trade one single minute , memory, or lesson for anything else in the world.
So for those of you who are aware of my dishes OCD'ed-ness, and the rebellious dishes phase, hope this helps to explain it! It's a family thing!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The last kitchen episode was three days ago. My husband buys a new grill. It said 20 minute assembly on the box, yeah right! But more on that in a minute. My hubbie makes awesome barbecue ribs. Note I said my hubbie. So we have planned our first grill out of the sprinummer(whatever this crazy season is), and I have instructions. For food prep in the kitchen. He is brave, very brave. So I am to get the ribs out, place them in a pot to boil. Once they boil, I am to turn the heat down. Ok, no biggie. I can handle that. I have done it before. OK so I am through step #1. I turn the heat to 4. Then i wait and stir, and wait and stir. For 40 minutes. I begin to think there is something wrong. For those of you who are just joining my faithful readers, welcome. FYI: I have a gas stove. The first one I have ever had that I was required to cook on.(my chef caliber roomies always cooked before, so I did not kill them) So I decide to crank up the heat and see if I can get the ribs to boil. And then it happens. The moment you have all been waiting for.......the gas pops on. Glorious blue flames! So pretty! Aha, there was my problem. I forgot to crank it up and turn it down. Oh well. OH WELL??? I almost blew up the house, again(yes this has happened before.) The house smelled like gas(40 minutes of free flowing gas mind you)when dear old hubbie got home. Oopsie. I have told you all before and I will tell you again, I do not belong in a kitchen(especially one equipped with a gas stove!)
So the ribs are cooking. My hubbie asks for help assembling the new, 20 minute assembly, grill. I am handing him parts, unwrapping parts, holding frame up, and holding the instructions. I am simultaneously running over to the swing set to push my darling three year old on her swing. The hubbie yells for me, and I go rushing back across the yard to the patio. On the way my flip flop outfitted foot connects with the end of the grill rack. Mind you not merely connects, but the front part of my heel on the instep actually squishes down onto the metal prong. Ooooooooooowwwwwwwwww. So there's one more hole I did not have before! Then we put the rack on backwards, and have to uninstall it and reinstall it. We finally ate dinner around 8pm.(yes the daughter had already eaten, for those parenting ability doubters) But the cool thing is, I GOT THE CORN SOAKED CORRECTLY!!!!
So today my grandmother in law came over to entertain my child while I started the tedious process of sorting. The dreaded sorting that happens before packing to move. So I got a lot done. I got the one bothersome bin out of our bedroom. The one that stayed at the end of our bed, packed with old winter clothes, since our last move in September. I sorted all the clothes into piles, and started washing to give to friends and to give to goodwill, or save for a yardsale. Well I decided to be an over achiever, and pack the current winter clothes away in the bin. I got the entire shelf in our closet cleaned out and packed! Yay me! Hubbie will be so happy! Hubbie will not be so happy at the remaining piles of laundry waiting in our bedroom floor waiting to be washed! I also cleaned out all of my daughters drawers, reorganized them, and sorted out all the too small things for a summer yard sale! GOOOOOOO ME!
Next we ate lunch, and layed down for a much anticipated nap. I don't know who was looking more forward to the nap, the thirty seven and a half year old or the three and a half year old! So right after she closes her eyes, she whispers in my ear, I have to tell you a secret! Okay. "BOOGER!" Youch, EAR! Booger, booger, booger, giggle, giggle, booger, booger, giggle, giggle, booger, booger, giggle, giggle. You see the pattern? Well this went on for 10 minutes. Then we calm down, the fact being established that the word booger, cracks up my three year old. I feel like I am in elementary school again. So it is apparently one of those days when she is going have trouble getting to sleep. No, I silently whine to myself, I have a migraine, and I need this nap! We will go to sleep! I vow we will! So an hour and fifteen minutes in, she has to poop. Nice. So we proceed to play "I spy with my lil eye.." for the next twenty minutes. I guess it helps her concentrate! So then we lay down again, and dear old daddy calls. She wanted to talk to her daddy I inform him, and she proceeds to get on the phone and start screaming booger booger, giggle,giggle, booger, booger,booger, all while hysterically giggling more and jumping on the bed. Hubbie gets off of the phone in apparent frustration, after he had a good laugh. Whether at her or at me for having to deal with her booger antics remains to be seen! So we finally lay back down, and she at this point, is obviously not going to sleep. So we get up, and go in to do laundry, and decide on dinner.
Oh and remember when I lost my Zoloft like two weeks ago? Remember, I turned the house upside down? I even eventually looked through the two bags of trash I had put in the bin! Well I found it! I had placed all of them in the Iron supplement bottle, after counting them one morning. I looked in the Iron bottle and noticed two kinds of differently shaped pills. I dumped them out and lo and behold, there they were! Right where I put them! Of course I could not have found them before going through the trash! Yuk! I keep telling my husband I should have been a blonde. When we asked her what she would think of mommy as a blonde, the three year old said I looked better with white! Thaaaaaanks doll! Mommy loves you too!
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The nightly ritual is as follows; brushing of the teeth, putting on jammies, kissing daddy goodnight, reading of a three year old selected book, drink of water, lights out, having to use the bathroom, and finally snuggling to sleep. Well the other night, I fell asleep with the darling, warm, snugly three year old, wrapped up in my arms. I awoke almost three hours later, went to fetch my husband off of the couch to come to bed and snuggle, turned off the TV, and retreated to the bathroom. I climb in bed where I am joined by my husband a short while later. We fall blissfully asleep, snuggled up together, and legs tangled.
So I am suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by the voice of my darling three year old at the side of our bed mumbling something, simultaneously with my husbands blood curdling shriek, at the figure hovering over our bed! (My daughter was standing on her stool by the bedside.) They were both apparently having bad dreams! So my husbands shreik scares the three year old half to death, and she screams also, followed by her hysterical sobbing that does one of two things;1- breaks your heart, or 2-has you racking your brain for any way to stop the horrible sobbing, so you can go back to sleep. So at this point, everybody's been spooked.
So a good 7 minutes later, all apologies have been said, and the three year old is calmed down enough to try to go back to sleep, while clinging to old mom for dear life.
So the next time I wake up, it is to little feet in my back. I roll over and place her feet on my legs. Next I wake to little feet in my face, so I turn her around in bed. One more time I awake to feet in the back and under the booty. Guess it is warm there! She has effectively made the human equivalent of the letter 'H', she being the crossbar between me and my husband! I go to the bathroom and come back to snuggle, hoping that this is the last interruption to my sleep! Ahhh sleep sweet sleep!
I jolt awake at the sounds of someone knocking on the wall. Four times in rapid succession. Spooked again! I lay very still and peep over at dear old hubbie, who seems to be perfectly asleep. When he opens his eyes, I question him as to whether he heard the four knocks or not. Turns out it was him. Ghost knocks=thinly disguised bodily function. Hah!
So restful sleep obviously eluded me this night...so on to nappietime and more snuggling!
Monday, April 2, 2012
So Monday has not been wonderful, but it was wild. First, my three year old and I both have allergies. So needless to say we have been dripping, watering, and I have been coughing up yellow chunks of nastiness. In big part due to yesterdays Easter pictures outside. Yes, dear readers, I have resumed my love of photography. 300 pictures later, I was satisfied with our pictures, and we had inhaled enough pollen to color the world's daffodils yellow for a month. That being said, I have to brag a little. After all, she is mine, and gorgeous to boot!(not biased at all...noooooooo)
So today we were feeling a little under the weather. We started out with glorious cinnamon and brown sugar pop tarts. Thanks hunny! Then we had a suprise visit from Great Gramma(Mamaw). We are still in our jammies, for a planned "lazy day". Well, it did not quite work out that way. I start picking up a little, because the "cleaning queen" matriarch of the family is right down the street at the doc and will be right over. The house is by no means filthy, but I start picking up anyway. She and her husband, my husbands grandparents, had bought her a couple of summer outfits and she was dropping them off. I showed her the Easter pictures, and she loved them. I also received the monthly and weekly issues of Home Life and Parent Life, her church's current christian publications. They have a lot of good articles! I also received the usual cut out articles that she feels can help us or our kids. She is the best meaning woman I know. This weeks snippet was regarding the political correctness of elementary schools trying to normalize homosexuality, versus eliminating family values and faith systems. Right..I steer clear of religious and political conversations with his family, ALWAYS. My momma taught me excellent values, morals, and universal accepectance, but I do not feel I have to impress my beliefs on anyone or argue with anyone elses point of view. I believe what I believe, and I respect others beliefs, as long as they do not try to force them on me. God and I have a good relationship, and we are just fine thank you. I also received the monthly hand out Focus on the Family. So new reading material anyways!
Does anyone else have a well meaning great gramma like this? We are blessed to have her! She cracks me up with her little suprise cut outs. She does it for the whole family, not just us. So the three year old will not try on the new clothes. No biggie, except she also pulls a crying fit where she dosent feel good. So mamaw has to leave. I asked the three year old if she wanted to tell Mamaw goodbye, and the next crying jag starts. So I pick her up, rush to the door, run outside in my nightgown and bare feet, holding my three year old through the gravel(barefeet-ouch), to catch her before she drives away. She gets her hug in, and all is right with the world.
So fast forward to lunch. I have a banging migraine. I make the three year old mac n noodles and applesauce. She keeps playing with her food. She drops mac n cheese all over the table, the floor, and herself. She then looks at me and turns a spoon full of applesauce sideways and dumps it onto the placemat. So after addressing the issue, and she resumes eating. I repeatedly have to ask her to eat her lunch. She again busts into tears. Now I have asked her nicely several times, then I told her firmly, then sternly, and then tears, because mommy is being a grumpy old troll. Thanks Dora! YES, mommy is grumpy! My head is killing me! So after I feed her the rest of her lunch, we proceed to take sleepy girl to bed. I am fully planning on sleeping with her during nappietime. Riiiiight. Not today. My sweet little darling says she cannot go to sleep. So we proceed to try for # hours to go to sleep. Or rather I tried. After the first hour and fifteen minutes, she had to poop. Ok, cannot help that. So then we snuggle. She finally calms down, and then my grandmother calls. So we chat for a bit, and the three year old sings to her. Ok finally we can go to sleep. Then the three year old informs me she is not sleepy. She launches into a diatribe of how and why she loves me so much. Aaawww...yeah, I know, who can resist that right? Well I fell for it the first time. But it got a little old the second, third and fourth times. Then she tried various and sundry reasons why she couldn't go to sleep. So finally I give up. I fix her a snack and get in the shower. Water...aaaaahhhhhh...scalding hot take the day and headache away water. So our water tank is only so big, so my nice long shower was cut short, but I was much refreshed and had a new outlook on the evening. I got dressed, and fixed us dinner.(husband commutes from work currently, so he was not home yet)
I then do the dishes, and even bake cookies. I am in a good mood and my headache has left the building. I am looking forward to welcoming my hubbie home and having a good evening and conversation. ACTUAL adult conversation. Yeah, as a stay at home mommy, I like to conversate with grown ups every now and again. So after dinner, we play hide and seek. We eat our share of the coookies. We watch Mickey Mouse. Then daddy gets home. He makes my grumpy all better by taking the three year old to the store and bringing home ice cream from Dairy Queen!
So the next day, I am peeling an apple for the darling three year old, and I had a little accident. I am new to the world of using a peeler. Especially a Yoshi blade ceramic peeler. Yup you guessed it, I do not belong in a kitchen. So I chopped the first 4 layers of skin off of the end of my finger! Ouchie! I showed my daughter, and she said,"Oh no! Will it grow back?" Good news is, the Yoshi blade made a clean cut, and it did not bleed. AT ALL! Shock! But I have a flat edge instead of round on the inside end of my left ring finger. Cool conversation starter!
Then the next day, the three year old is twirling and falls. It was one of those slow motion falls you see in your head. She comes flying through the air and lands on my foot.