I hate the basement. It’s the perfect place to play: lots of open space, cement floor for skating and bike riding, heavy bag for punching out aggression, and funky silver insulation for pretending you’re in a spaceship. But, and it’s a big but, spiders have taken over, filling every corner, all eyeing me with evil intent every time I step foot down there. They’re everywhere. Even if I simply think about venturing into the arachnid abyss, I break out into a sweat. I get all clammy. I experience chest pains. It’s even worse when the kids want to play down there, and I become almost paralyzed with fear when they venture into the play tents.
I had to brave the furry, multilegged wild just a couple minutes ago. The air conditioned air smelled like wet cement, so I had to be sure things were dry down there. Had to find shoes—can’t visit spider haven with bare feet. Heart a-pounding, I dragged myself down the steps and walked somewhat near the perimeter. Couldn’t get too close to the spiders. There was the normal wetness near the sump pump, and I had to get close enough to the wall to ensure it was dry and the water had come from the pump pipe. Because it’s a little dim, I stuck my hand directly into a web, and I almost had a heart attack right there (after the icky spider dance). The only thing that prevented my untimely death was the fear that spiders would crawl all over my dead body. Shudder. I hate them, but I can’t kill them, as that would upset the delicate ecosystem that exists in the basement. There’s obviously food for them, or they would move out. If they’re exterminated, who knows what else I’d run into down there.
I can’t take it. And I don’t understand it. Why can’t I just put on my big girl pants and deal? Probably because I’m afraid the spiders have gotten to my big girl pants.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thunder and Rain and Wind, Oh, My
Panic. Everyone panic. We are going to get some rain. Oh, no.
So, tropical storm Hanna is expected to reach us within 24 hours. The newspaper ran a HUGE story about what to do: stock up on batteries, milk, bread, flashlights, etc. It warned of flooding. It warned of wind—gusts up to a whopping 41 m.p.h. Oh, no. Thunder and rain and wind, oh, my.
I am not concerned. Granted, we have no milk, so we might all go through withdrawal if we don’t get more, but I think we’ll survive in the end. Bread—oh, we have bread. Tons of it. Nobody eats it, which is why we have it. We’re stocked; therefore, according to the newspaper, we’re good to go. We also have plenty of AA and AAA batteries. I don’t know what we’ll do with them. Maybe we’ll roll them around in the kitchen for fun when the electricity goes out and we can’t use the Internet. That’s my real fear: no computer. What on earth will I do without the Internet and the National Weather Service? Oh, my, God! What if the electricity goes out and we have no TV? Holy cow! How will I entertain the family? No Wonder Pets, no Total Drama Island, no Dora, no Diego, no Joe (but we really liked Steve better), no Yo Gabba Gabba (Teletubbies meets Soul Train—definitely watch it for the psycho factor). We may have to speak to each other and interact. Heavens no! Or, I could just watch the kids try to gag down some peanut butter sandwiches with warm soda (because we’ll have no milk and no electricity to keep the soda cold). Fun for the whole family.
We also have no flashlights, but that’s ok. Why do we need them? I like to sleep—we can all go to bed when it gets dark.
And, those of you who remember why it took three years to build my house already know that I have nothing to fear in terms of flooding. (Remember, the county was hung up on the bioswales and the flow of the run-off rain water. We could get twenty-five inches of rain in five minutes and still be ok. No flooding here.)
So why the panic? It’s rain and a little wind. The ironic thing here is that from September through June, the winds in my neighborhood average between 20-30 m.p.h. anyway. This is no change. So, everyone else can panic. Go buy all of the bread and milk in the tri-state area. Hold up the gallons to shield yourselves from the wind. Pack the bread along your leaky windows. Stock up on batteries for no apparent reason. Lemmings. All lemmings. I know the truth here.
The wheat farmers, the dairy farmers, Energizer, Duracell, and Maglite control the weather. Or the news. And they are seriously opposed to children’s television programming.
So, tropical storm Hanna is expected to reach us within 24 hours. The newspaper ran a HUGE story about what to do: stock up on batteries, milk, bread, flashlights, etc. It warned of flooding. It warned of wind—gusts up to a whopping 41 m.p.h. Oh, no. Thunder and rain and wind, oh, my.
I am not concerned. Granted, we have no milk, so we might all go through withdrawal if we don’t get more, but I think we’ll survive in the end. Bread—oh, we have bread. Tons of it. Nobody eats it, which is why we have it. We’re stocked; therefore, according to the newspaper, we’re good to go. We also have plenty of AA and AAA batteries. I don’t know what we’ll do with them. Maybe we’ll roll them around in the kitchen for fun when the electricity goes out and we can’t use the Internet. That’s my real fear: no computer. What on earth will I do without the Internet and the National Weather Service? Oh, my, God! What if the electricity goes out and we have no TV? Holy cow! How will I entertain the family? No Wonder Pets, no Total Drama Island, no Dora, no Diego, no Joe (but we really liked Steve better), no Yo Gabba Gabba (Teletubbies meets Soul Train—definitely watch it for the psycho factor). We may have to speak to each other and interact. Heavens no! Or, I could just watch the kids try to gag down some peanut butter sandwiches with warm soda (because we’ll have no milk and no electricity to keep the soda cold). Fun for the whole family.
We also have no flashlights, but that’s ok. Why do we need them? I like to sleep—we can all go to bed when it gets dark.
And, those of you who remember why it took three years to build my house already know that I have nothing to fear in terms of flooding. (Remember, the county was hung up on the bioswales and the flow of the run-off rain water. We could get twenty-five inches of rain in five minutes and still be ok. No flooding here.)
So why the panic? It’s rain and a little wind. The ironic thing here is that from September through June, the winds in my neighborhood average between 20-30 m.p.h. anyway. This is no change. So, everyone else can panic. Go buy all of the bread and milk in the tri-state area. Hold up the gallons to shield yourselves from the wind. Pack the bread along your leaky windows. Stock up on batteries for no apparent reason. Lemmings. All lemmings. I know the truth here.
The wheat farmers, the dairy farmers, Energizer, Duracell, and Maglite control the weather. Or the news. And they are seriously opposed to children’s television programming.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Swamp, Mountain, Volcano
So, this last week of vacation has been filled with swordfighting and Wonder Pet play. We have actually acquired a “fly boat” that says all of the sayings and sings all of the songs, and now my children sing everything. It’s nice to see them play together, rescuing cows from trees, sheep from fences, polar bears from deserts. There’s some good teamwork going on there. It usually ends with hitting an tears, but it’s good bonding. I also get to hear, “We need some food. This is serious,” sung at least twice a day. And, thanks to the Wonder Pets, my son has learned some new and important concepts. For example, yesterday he was playing on my bed (mind you, we’ve now been in the house a year, and the bed is still lying on my bedroom floor, unassembled). He told me he was floating on driftwood. He learned what driftwood is from the Wonder Pets. How fantastic. That will take him so far in life!
Oh, I almost forgot about Dora and Diego. What on earth am I going to do when school begins this week and I will no longer be able to run through the house saving whales, putting the moon back together, and going through the spooky swamp, over the magical mountain, and up the big volcano to save Benny. Spooky swamp, magical mountain, big volcano. Oh, and no more Swiper! There’s nothing so fulfilling as yelling at the top of your lungs, “Swiper is right behind you. For crying out loud, open your eyes, Dora!” At least I can use the Swiper concept in the classroom. Any one of those kids makes an attempt to steal someone else’s pen, and I get to blurt it out: Swiper, no swiping!
No more whining, begging, pulling on my clothes, pinching my arms, throwing toys at my head… What on earth will I do without my little people between 8:00 and 3:00 each day? Thank God I teach middle school. My students don’t want to get close enough to pinch my arm or hang on my clothes. I’ll miss spending all day, every day with my little one’s, though, I am sure, but Christmas vacation is only four months away.
Well, little boy is begging me to play Dora, so I need to go. Can you say, map? You have to say, map! Louder! He can’t hear you!
I’m going insane.
Oh, I almost forgot about Dora and Diego. What on earth am I going to do when school begins this week and I will no longer be able to run through the house saving whales, putting the moon back together, and going through the spooky swamp, over the magical mountain, and up the big volcano to save Benny. Spooky swamp, magical mountain, big volcano. Oh, and no more Swiper! There’s nothing so fulfilling as yelling at the top of your lungs, “Swiper is right behind you. For crying out loud, open your eyes, Dora!” At least I can use the Swiper concept in the classroom. Any one of those kids makes an attempt to steal someone else’s pen, and I get to blurt it out: Swiper, no swiping!
No more whining, begging, pulling on my clothes, pinching my arms, throwing toys at my head… What on earth will I do without my little people between 8:00 and 3:00 each day? Thank God I teach middle school. My students don’t want to get close enough to pinch my arm or hang on my clothes. I’ll miss spending all day, every day with my little one’s, though, I am sure, but Christmas vacation is only four months away.
Well, little boy is begging me to play Dora, so I need to go. Can you say, map? You have to say, map! Louder! He can’t hear you!
I’m going insane.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Blood Work
So, once again I have fallen out of the running for the "mother of the year" award. Today was checkup day, and I have neglected for three years to get the lead test done on my son. This was pretty much the end of the line, as he needs the test results to go to preschool next week. I asked the doctor to fake it, but she wouldn't. She wrote out a script for the lead test and a hemoglobin check.
The kids and I trotted on down to the lab, my son asking the whole way what we were doing. I just kept saying they were going to check his lead. He had no idea where his lead was. I did not want him to work into the pre-needle panic, which also involves panting and sweating. I felt a certain degree of pity for him, knowing he was going to be poked.
In the waiting room, he became the naughtiest boy ever, running around, laughing and spitting in my direction when I told him to sit down, pinching his sister, yelling that he was not going to get a band aid, and so forth. Slowly, I began to relish the thought of what was about to happen to him. I may have even begun to smile deliriously. I know the couple across the waiting room was horrified that I just did nothing, but what can you do when your three-year-old spits at you when you've already invested waiting time at the lab? Yes, I sat and smiled and let the maniac exorcise his inner banshee. I knew his devilish attitude would soon come to an end. Go ahead: spit, kick, and pinch, my boy, for a worse fate awaits you.
Finally, the nurse sent us to room 2. I nearly skipped there, chiming in an excited high-pitched voice, "Come, on, guys! To room 2!" My daughter, of course, laughed and giggled the whole time he was in the chair. I think I smiled a bit, too. His attitude changed drastically, and HE GOT A BAND AID!
I rewarded them with Burger King, but the boy, with his puppy dog eyes and his bottom lip quivering and extended, said, "I don't want any food. I don't feel so well. They hurt me." Then he cried some more.
And I didn't feel that bad for him. See, you never spit at your mother.
The kids and I trotted on down to the lab, my son asking the whole way what we were doing. I just kept saying they were going to check his lead. He had no idea where his lead was. I did not want him to work into the pre-needle panic, which also involves panting and sweating. I felt a certain degree of pity for him, knowing he was going to be poked.
In the waiting room, he became the naughtiest boy ever, running around, laughing and spitting in my direction when I told him to sit down, pinching his sister, yelling that he was not going to get a band aid, and so forth. Slowly, I began to relish the thought of what was about to happen to him. I may have even begun to smile deliriously. I know the couple across the waiting room was horrified that I just did nothing, but what can you do when your three-year-old spits at you when you've already invested waiting time at the lab? Yes, I sat and smiled and let the maniac exorcise his inner banshee. I knew his devilish attitude would soon come to an end. Go ahead: spit, kick, and pinch, my boy, for a worse fate awaits you.
Finally, the nurse sent us to room 2. I nearly skipped there, chiming in an excited high-pitched voice, "Come, on, guys! To room 2!" My daughter, of course, laughed and giggled the whole time he was in the chair. I think I smiled a bit, too. His attitude changed drastically, and HE GOT A BAND AID!
I rewarded them with Burger King, but the boy, with his puppy dog eyes and his bottom lip quivering and extended, said, "I don't want any food. I don't feel so well. They hurt me." Then he cried some more.
And I didn't feel that bad for him. See, you never spit at your mother.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Paint, Pee, and Poop
I do not know how I have maintained my sanity through the summer. Just today, for example, I decided we would set up the easel in the driveway and paint. The boy was all kinds of excited, but the girl wanted to paint anything but paper on the easel. She brought me a pair of binoculars: “Can I paint these?” No. She brought me a stuffed bear: “Can I paint this?” No. This went on and on. Finally, I told her she should be happy to paint on the easel, considering it’s been at least four years since she last did it, and I was willing to clean it off, set it up, divvy up the paints, and clean up the mess when finished. So, we traveled out to paint. The boy happily set to work, but ventured around to see his sister’s work. He quickly drew a mustache on her dog illustration, and the tears broke forth. I had to send the poor girl inside to calm herself down. I do not understand tears over some paint. She came back outside to finish. As I was replacing one of her pages, I devilishly decided to smear her with paint (she was wearing a smock). So, she got me back, but got my shorts, too. I had to come inside to put them in the washer. As I was loading the washer, in walked the boy with soaking wet pants: “I had to go potty.” Um, well, then do it in the potty, not in your pants! So I had to get him cleaned up. Then, he didn’t want to paint anymore. I went outside to be with the girl and to clean the pee off the driveway. We heard someone yelling for a dog, so she went to get a better look and stepped in fresh dog poop. Ewwwww. Poor thing. We sprayed that foot for a good fifteen minutes. As I look across the table now, I see that she has red paint on her nose, on her cheek, and in her hair. She’ll need a shower.
Ok, so painting involved two soiled pair of shorts, one soiled pair of underwear, one pile of dog poop, pee on the driveway, and one shower to get paint out of the hair and poop off the foot.
Yet, I have not lost my mind.
Ok, so painting involved two soiled pair of shorts, one soiled pair of underwear, one pile of dog poop, pee on the driveway, and one shower to get paint out of the hair and poop off the foot.
Yet, I have not lost my mind.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Permits
Oh, I forgot to mention that the food poisoning resulted in a 5 lb. weight loss, but I’ve gained it back since then. Darn it!
Ok, so here’s the gripe of the day:
Building permits. I have to buy a friggin building permit to put steps on the back of my house. The builder did not bother with the steps, and none of us can effectively jump out the back door (even though it is only 4 feet to the ground). Well, jumping out would be easy; it’s the climbing back in that’s a pain in the ass. Here’s a pic:
One day, we managed to lock ourselves out while we were playing outside. I had to get the ladder from the garage, break the lock on the screen, and climb over that dumbass gate. I am short, and the gate is taller than my legs, so I sort of fell over sideways on the kitchen floor with a solid thud, but I was able to drag myself to the front and unlock the door so the kids could get back inside.
The dog could probably clear it if he tried hard enough, and if he didn’t make it, then he’s neutered for free! Anyway, I need the stupid steps. The steps might cost me $100 in materials and $100 in labor—I am getting a little help. But the stupid building permit starts at $100. ?????????????????????????????????????????????
So, one wonders, what will happen if I do not get the permit? With my luck, I’d be put in prison for five years. It’s clear that the county just wants my money.
So, I have decided that if I have to buy a stupid f-ing permit, I will build the beginning of a deck. Next year, I’ll make it bigger. I suppose I’ll also have to get permission from my neighborhood to build the steps and deck. I need everyone’s permission for everything. You know what? I might just buy a goat, keep it in the backyard, and claim it’s a dog. The neighborhood can send me letter after letter, and I will just claim it’s a dog that got hit by a car. Then, I’ll go into a huge tirade about how my poor, handicapped dog gets nothing but grief. Here I am trying to be a good person by adopting this disfigured dog that was horribly injured in a car accident, and they’re trying to tell me it’s a goat and I need to get rid of it? Just wait until I contact PETA and the SPCA. Wouldn’t that be fun? I bet my husband would divorce me.
Totally different topic, today my doctor found that I have an irregular heartbeat. Sometimes, my heart just doesn’t beat. He had to do an EKG. As I am lying there for the EKG, my son is walking in and out of the room, telling everyone that he doesn’t like me—and leaving the door open so everyone can see me in the lovely paper gown. Nice. So, I asked the doctor if children could cause irregular heartbeats. He didn’t get it. The good news is that I will not develop prostate cancer. And I was soooooo worried about that.
Ok, so here’s the gripe of the day:
Building permits. I have to buy a friggin building permit to put steps on the back of my house. The builder did not bother with the steps, and none of us can effectively jump out the back door (even though it is only 4 feet to the ground). Well, jumping out would be easy; it’s the climbing back in that’s a pain in the ass. Here’s a pic:
One day, we managed to lock ourselves out while we were playing outside. I had to get the ladder from the garage, break the lock on the screen, and climb over that dumbass gate. I am short, and the gate is taller than my legs, so I sort of fell over sideways on the kitchen floor with a solid thud, but I was able to drag myself to the front and unlock the door so the kids could get back inside.
The dog could probably clear it if he tried hard enough, and if he didn’t make it, then he’s neutered for free! Anyway, I need the stupid steps. The steps might cost me $100 in materials and $100 in labor—I am getting a little help. But the stupid building permit starts at $100. ?????????????????????????????????????????????
So, one wonders, what will happen if I do not get the permit? With my luck, I’d be put in prison for five years. It’s clear that the county just wants my money.
So, I have decided that if I have to buy a stupid f-ing permit, I will build the beginning of a deck. Next year, I’ll make it bigger. I suppose I’ll also have to get permission from my neighborhood to build the steps and deck. I need everyone’s permission for everything. You know what? I might just buy a goat, keep it in the backyard, and claim it’s a dog. The neighborhood can send me letter after letter, and I will just claim it’s a dog that got hit by a car. Then, I’ll go into a huge tirade about how my poor, handicapped dog gets nothing but grief. Here I am trying to be a good person by adopting this disfigured dog that was horribly injured in a car accident, and they’re trying to tell me it’s a goat and I need to get rid of it? Just wait until I contact PETA and the SPCA. Wouldn’t that be fun? I bet my husband would divorce me.
Totally different topic, today my doctor found that I have an irregular heartbeat. Sometimes, my heart just doesn’t beat. He had to do an EKG. As I am lying there for the EKG, my son is walking in and out of the room, telling everyone that he doesn’t like me—and leaving the door open so everyone can see me in the lovely paper gown. Nice. So, I asked the doctor if children could cause irregular heartbeats. He didn’t get it. The good news is that I will not develop prostate cancer. And I was soooooo worried about that.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Neil Diamond and Killer Dogs
I am truly amazed that a 67 year-old man has such a powerful voice and the stamina to perform two-and-a-half hours without a break. Incredible. He sold out the Whachovia Center--they even sat the seats BEHIND the stage and added a second show, which also sold out. The songs sounded just as good live as they do on the recordings, and Neil does NOT lip sync. He is truly a legend, and he plans to keep doing this for 40 more years. Yes, I will go see him when he is 107. And I'm 77. I can be one of those wheelchair ladies I saw at the concert! Woo hoo! (We counted 18 wheelchairs, but I am sure there were more, and the canes were probably in the triple digits.)
I have been to Peter Gabriel, ACDC, Aerosmith, and the like, and never, never have I had to explain to an 89 year-old woman that the soap dispenser in the bathroom is broken, and that's why she cannot get soap out of it. Poor woman. Just stood there, totally perplexed, asking countless women how to work "this thing." Darn that soap dispenser technology!
Now, here's the best part. Well, not really, but it is the funniest part. Well, not really funny, but ironic. Bitterly ironic. Sadly, cruelly ironic. In eight years, my husband and I have not spent one night without kids. Eight. With kids. So, Mom volunteered to let them sleep over. WOO HOO! I think I was more excited at the thought of having a night alone with my husband than going to see Neil. I showered. I shaved. I primped--and we all know I never primp. I bought a new outfit. Now, you know what I had planned, and not because Neil turns me on, although I do admit that his voice does get me a little worked up (then I remember that he's older than my dad, and the moment is over).
With the evening planned, we headed out to the concert--three hours before it started. We picked up some friends, and planned to get dinner. Oh, no, that didn't happen. Traffic was a nightmare. We got to the concert just in time to see the first song. I was starving. Yesterday, all I had consumed was a cup of coffee and a piece of bread. My dear husband ran out during a song and bought hot dogs for us both. That was my fatal error. As soon as the concert was finished, I started throwing up and didn't stop until 4:00 in the morning. It tasted good, but clearly, it was not. I couldn't see the dog in the dark while I ate it, but it was NOT THE RIGHT COLOR when it made its reappearance. Yuck.
So much for my romantic evening. I spent it in my son's bathroom. The killer dog hit my hubby today. Wachovia dogs suck! I guess I'll have to wait another eight years, and then I will remember not to eat concert food.
I have been to Peter Gabriel, ACDC, Aerosmith, and the like, and never, never have I had to explain to an 89 year-old woman that the soap dispenser in the bathroom is broken, and that's why she cannot get soap out of it. Poor woman. Just stood there, totally perplexed, asking countless women how to work "this thing." Darn that soap dispenser technology!
Now, here's the best part. Well, not really, but it is the funniest part. Well, not really funny, but ironic. Bitterly ironic. Sadly, cruelly ironic. In eight years, my husband and I have not spent one night without kids. Eight. With kids. So, Mom volunteered to let them sleep over. WOO HOO! I think I was more excited at the thought of having a night alone with my husband than going to see Neil. I showered. I shaved. I primped--and we all know I never primp. I bought a new outfit. Now, you know what I had planned, and not because Neil turns me on, although I do admit that his voice does get me a little worked up (then I remember that he's older than my dad, and the moment is over).
With the evening planned, we headed out to the concert--three hours before it started. We picked up some friends, and planned to get dinner. Oh, no, that didn't happen. Traffic was a nightmare. We got to the concert just in time to see the first song. I was starving. Yesterday, all I had consumed was a cup of coffee and a piece of bread. My dear husband ran out during a song and bought hot dogs for us both. That was my fatal error. As soon as the concert was finished, I started throwing up and didn't stop until 4:00 in the morning. It tasted good, but clearly, it was not. I couldn't see the dog in the dark while I ate it, but it was NOT THE RIGHT COLOR when it made its reappearance. Yuck.
So much for my romantic evening. I spent it in my son's bathroom. The killer dog hit my hubby today. Wachovia dogs suck! I guess I'll have to wait another eight years, and then I will remember not to eat concert food.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Further details from the septic tank for ya:
When that truck pumps what they call sludge from the bottom of the tank, oh, is there an odor! It didn't come in the back windows. It came in the front because the truck was parked in the front. My daughter almost threw up instantly. I raced to close the windows so that we would not be overcome by fumes. I can just see the coroner's report now: three found dead: cause of death: sh!t (or fatal, bottled up flatulence, take your pick). There's a reason those tank covers say, "Do not remove. Harmful gases." Oh, they're harmful. Believe me. Nearly took down my daughter.
My son, however, who is stuffy, didn't notice a thing and kept on playing with his cars.
When that truck pumps what they call sludge from the bottom of the tank, oh, is there an odor! It didn't come in the back windows. It came in the front because the truck was parked in the front. My daughter almost threw up instantly. I raced to close the windows so that we would not be overcome by fumes. I can just see the coroner's report now: three found dead: cause of death: sh!t (or fatal, bottled up flatulence, take your pick). There's a reason those tank covers say, "Do not remove. Harmful gases." Oh, they're harmful. Believe me. Nearly took down my daughter.
My son, however, who is stuffy, didn't notice a thing and kept on playing with his cars.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Septic Tanks
Guess what I learned today?
That you don't leave your windows open while you have your septic tank pumped!
That you don't leave your windows open while you have your septic tank pumped!
Friday, August 1, 2008
It's Working!
StatBeast is up and running! Statbeast.com has everything you want in terms of sports stats (football right now). It's all free! Check them out here. Then, tell all your friends because my life as a kept woman depends on the success of this site.
Check out this Broncos schedule (I love my Denver Broncos!):
We'll watch it throughout the season, and the scores will update without my having to repost!
Do you wager on sports? Check out the Vegas Baby trends (more to come):
Woo hoo! It's up!
Check out this Broncos schedule (I love my Denver Broncos!):
We'll watch it throughout the season, and the scores will update without my having to repost!
Do you wager on sports? Check out the Vegas Baby trends (more to come):
Woo hoo! It's up!
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