Okay, March ended with less than total success but I will prevail. I'm going to roll the tail end of the basement into April and call it good. I did manage to conquer my media woes despite the fact that Real Player decided to take a dump toward the end of the music project and reset all the clip info back to its natural form. Fine, I set my 14 year old music junkie of a son to the task of fixing it before I took a hammer to the computer. It really was in his best interests to take care of it for me.
The big project for April is going to be to tackle the garage, the smaller project (and keeping with the theme) will be to totally clean the cars both inside and out. I know what you're thinking, the cars? that's a cop out. Obviously, you've never seen the collection of out and out crap in my car. I think because we spend so much time driving from one activity to the next that the car has truly become an extension of the house. We have water bottles, books, games, CD players, pillows and blankets in there all the time to stave off dehydration, illiteracy, boredom, silence and exhaustion..be prepared, right?
The garage is generally off limits to girls, I know and accept this 99.9% of the time, but this is my .1% that I'm allowed access and I'm going to seize the opportunity. Considering my beloved's tendency to save, store and collect unbelievable amounts of nothing, I felt it was time for drastic action. Factor in the fact that the amount of crap stacked in the only area of the garage that I actually use, the time has come for me to step in...now. Once the area between the spot I park and the exit of the man cave became almost completely impassable, the 'no girls allowed' rule is moot. I sense I am going to be greeted with a fair amount of resistance from my beloved and my youngest son, but I should be able to get my eldest on my side...or at least keep him neutral. The garage is definitely NOT my domain and I'm perfectly comfortable with that. We have the local "Garage-Mahal" as the previous owner of our house seemed to spend a whole lot of his time there (perhaps this is one of the reasons they're not married anymore). The garage has two rooms, one for parking the two cars and the usual garage-y stuff and the other is the Man Room (yes, the capitalization is deliberate), complete with its own furnace, microwave, mini fridge, chest freezer and yes, cable television. Completing the decor is our old living room set (sofa, loveseat and coffee table) and both of my beloved's stuffed deer heads. This was the compromise as HE wanted to hang them in the living room, right above the fireplace. I simply had to disagree that they were a solid decorating choice. Plus they creep me out and he strenuously objected to my idea of dressing them to reflect the current season (Santa Hats, leis and sunglasses, maybe an Uncle Sam hat for Independence Day), he said that would be disrespectful. More so than cutting off their heads, stuffing them with something foreign and sticking them up on the wall, you mean? My beloved and his pals use our garage every fall for processing their deer meat while drinking beer and watching football. I think it's great and encourage this male bonding thing going on out there, I do not wish to participate in any way, shape or form. They NEED to remember this. My eldest son is definitely my child as the whole dead bodies hanging in row is the garage squicks him out just as much as it does me. My youngest, however, thinks this is the greatest time of the year. A couple of years ago, Andrew was asked to bring something out to the slaughterhouse, entered the garage, took one look around and said "Well, that's just disturbing." and fled for the house, not to be seen by the garage crew for the remainder of the weekend. Charlie, on the other hand, put on his nasty, grubby old jacket, snapped on a pair of kitchen gloves and plunged right into the process, not to be seen inside the house for hours at a time. The boy has eaten some unspeakable things out there, most of which I can't and won't even begin to describe here.
The garage has become too comfortable a place to stick stuff we don't know what else to do with, so it's time for another purge and I refuse to make this one another covert op, no way man. There's enough stuff in there to merit the idea of that spring/summer event I have scrupulously avoided in the past...the garage sale. I'm going to have to really mull this one over as I hate the whole idea of garage sales. Not going to them, not other people having them, just doing one myself. Going to have to revisit the idea once I know what's in there.
I think we spent too much time together this weekend and as a result, I find myself considering a few survival tips for the males of our species. First and foremost is this: If you live with a woman, married to her or not, replacing the toilet paper roll is NOT OPTIONAL. Trust me boys, this will actually save your life one day. Boys don't need it everytime they use the facilities, GIRLS DO. And if we have to sit and drip dry, our minds begin to work overtime and we actually begin to formulate nebulous plans to kill you in your sleep, knowing that a jury of our true peers will consider your death completely justified. Women are extremely at subtle and unexpected form of revenge, boys and you'd do well to remember this the next time you use the last of the roll. We wait, plan and bide our time until YOU'VE forgotten the offense and just when you think you're safe is our moment to strike. All you have to do is change the roll, or at the VERY least, put one on the back of the john, on the counter, simply somewhere less than arm's reach from the stool. Feel free to conduct an experiment or two and establish what exactly constitutes "arm's length" and that knowledge is crucial, necessary to preserve both you and the greater good.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
March Madness
Here we're looking at the tail end of March and I have not achieved my major project goal for the month. Sigh. I have managed to weed through the books and the movies, but the music is a much larger project than I thought. There is also the possibility that I made it a bit bigger than it needed to be as I decided that all the tunes on the computer fell under the organizational umbrella. I took it upon myself to properly categorize the 7,000+ media files on my computer by their proper genre and make sure the songs all had complete information on year, artist and album. I think I may have bit off a touch more than I could chew on that one. I started out by classifying each song into a specific genre but abandoned that idea rather quickly and just decided to do it but artist. I'm still not done and doubt I ever will be as I keep adding songs on an almost daily basis. Damn you ITunes!
The basement has defeated me. I will admit it right here and now. But honestly, who sees the basement but those of us who live here? It's not THAT big of a thing, right? We did have a bit of a setback, call it a delay, the other day when we realized it was unseasonably warm in the basement. Charlie is the one who tracked the source when he leaned against the brick wall that forms the ash pit for the fireplace and announced it was hot. I'll admit to scoffing at him and thinking he was completely mental but upon checking it out for myself, had to apologize for doubting him. Hmmm, the ash pit is hot, we haven't had a fire for weeks, so what the heck is the deal? Trooping up to the living room and opening the fireplace doors, we discover, much to our dismay, an alarming amount of heat emanating from the fireplace without a flame in sight. Oh dear, might be time to call someone. Fortunately, I live in a town with a volunteer fire department and we know most of the guys quite well so getting someone over was really not a problem. It took him less than a minute to tell us what the problem was (a smoldering fire in the ash pit) and another twelve seconds to let us know there's really nothing to do but let it run its course and enjoy the temporarily lower heating costs. Several days later, we undertook the cleaning of the ash pit. Wow, now there's a project. First of all, I know the previous owners of our house never cleaned the damn thing out. How do I know this? you may ask. I know this because the water heater was installed directly in front of the tiny door that allows you to clean out the ash pit, rendering it un-openable...I think my assumption is a safe one here. So now we have to call both the gas company AND our friendly neighborhood plumbing contractor to move to water heater. Suddenly, this is no longer a free and simple undertaking. In case you're wondering, $250 to have this done. Yippiee. Check written and happy plumber gone, we turned our attention back to the original chore. Dan and Andrew (my older child) are elected to perform this particular task, mainly because I said so and Charlie would have WAAAY too much fun mucking about in a pile of ash. After about twenty minutes and three LARGE garbage bags filled with ash are removed, Dan declared the job not so bad and nearly done. The floor of the ash pit was bare and pretty well swept out, looking good! Then Dan tapped his tiny shovel against the side of the pit and the whole scenario changed. What we had accomplished in those twenty minutes was to carve out a hollow space at the base of a well compacted column of ash. When the base is hollow, the column shall not stand. I bet you can imagine what happened next. The taps of the shovel acted like a tiny earthquake that dislodged whatever remaining integrity the structure of ash had left and the ensuing WHOOSH of collapsing ash was our very own pyroclastic cloud erupting from the basement. The mad scramble for the stairs, both to escape and to get the basement door shut to protect to rest of the house was reminiscent of the stateroom scene from the Marx Brothers' "Night At The Opera". After the dust had (literally) settled, we made our way back into the pit to assess the situation. Oh my...this is a bit of a pickle. Several hours and about a dozen large garbage bags later, we cautiously called it a day. And we've decided that we will be clearing out the ash pit every spring, without fail. I mean it. I am now faced with a difficult decision, do I bag the basement and move on to the April project? Or do I rollover the basement and move April's project to another month? Hrrmmm, gonna have to get back to that one.
In other news, I have a friend who has recently acquired a Myna bird to complete her menagerie that already included three cats, two dogs, several other birds, a couple of horses and a llama (don't ask). At this point, there aren't any fish or reptiles involved, but I can feel it coming. She's thrilled about the bird but I don't think the rest of the critters feel quite the same way. For starters, I think they're a bit jealous (that new toy thing) and the fact that the bird has a rather extensive vocabulary is a little disconcerting for the non-verbal animals in the mix. She thinks it's hilarious that the bird has already learned the dogs' names and likes to call them to come from time to time. I doubt the dogs are as amused as she is about this new trick. I have decided that Terri needs help, and fast. I feel an animal intervention coming on, soon.
The basement has defeated me. I will admit it right here and now. But honestly, who sees the basement but those of us who live here? It's not THAT big of a thing, right? We did have a bit of a setback, call it a delay, the other day when we realized it was unseasonably warm in the basement. Charlie is the one who tracked the source when he leaned against the brick wall that forms the ash pit for the fireplace and announced it was hot. I'll admit to scoffing at him and thinking he was completely mental but upon checking it out for myself, had to apologize for doubting him. Hmmm, the ash pit is hot, we haven't had a fire for weeks, so what the heck is the deal? Trooping up to the living room and opening the fireplace doors, we discover, much to our dismay, an alarming amount of heat emanating from the fireplace without a flame in sight. Oh dear, might be time to call someone. Fortunately, I live in a town with a volunteer fire department and we know most of the guys quite well so getting someone over was really not a problem. It took him less than a minute to tell us what the problem was (a smoldering fire in the ash pit) and another twelve seconds to let us know there's really nothing to do but let it run its course and enjoy the temporarily lower heating costs. Several days later, we undertook the cleaning of the ash pit. Wow, now there's a project. First of all, I know the previous owners of our house never cleaned the damn thing out. How do I know this? you may ask. I know this because the water heater was installed directly in front of the tiny door that allows you to clean out the ash pit, rendering it un-openable...I think my assumption is a safe one here. So now we have to call both the gas company AND our friendly neighborhood plumbing contractor to move to water heater. Suddenly, this is no longer a free and simple undertaking. In case you're wondering, $250 to have this done. Yippiee. Check written and happy plumber gone, we turned our attention back to the original chore. Dan and Andrew (my older child) are elected to perform this particular task, mainly because I said so and Charlie would have WAAAY too much fun mucking about in a pile of ash. After about twenty minutes and three LARGE garbage bags filled with ash are removed, Dan declared the job not so bad and nearly done. The floor of the ash pit was bare and pretty well swept out, looking good! Then Dan tapped his tiny shovel against the side of the pit and the whole scenario changed. What we had accomplished in those twenty minutes was to carve out a hollow space at the base of a well compacted column of ash. When the base is hollow, the column shall not stand. I bet you can imagine what happened next. The taps of the shovel acted like a tiny earthquake that dislodged whatever remaining integrity the structure of ash had left and the ensuing WHOOSH of collapsing ash was our very own pyroclastic cloud erupting from the basement. The mad scramble for the stairs, both to escape and to get the basement door shut to protect to rest of the house was reminiscent of the stateroom scene from the Marx Brothers' "Night At The Opera". After the dust had (literally) settled, we made our way back into the pit to assess the situation. Oh my...this is a bit of a pickle. Several hours and about a dozen large garbage bags later, we cautiously called it a day. And we've decided that we will be clearing out the ash pit every spring, without fail. I mean it. I am now faced with a difficult decision, do I bag the basement and move on to the April project? Or do I rollover the basement and move April's project to another month? Hrrmmm, gonna have to get back to that one.
In other news, I have a friend who has recently acquired a Myna bird to complete her menagerie that already included three cats, two dogs, several other birds, a couple of horses and a llama (don't ask). At this point, there aren't any fish or reptiles involved, but I can feel it coming. She's thrilled about the bird but I don't think the rest of the critters feel quite the same way. For starters, I think they're a bit jealous (that new toy thing) and the fact that the bird has a rather extensive vocabulary is a little disconcerting for the non-verbal animals in the mix. She thinks it's hilarious that the bird has already learned the dogs' names and likes to call them to come from time to time. I doubt the dogs are as amused as she is about this new trick. I have decided that Terri needs help, and fast. I feel an animal intervention coming on, soon.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Annnnd...Action!
Good Lord, I have barely a week left to call the month of March a success. I did tackle the movie collection over the weekend and have decided we have questionable, at best, taste around here. I'm more than a bit embarassed to admit to the amount of bullet porn we have in my house. I suppose it was inevitable, considering that one cat and I are the only creatures living in this house without a measurable level of testosterone in our blood. I mean really, did Bridget Jones' Diary really have a fighting chance against Live Free Or Die Hard? Bullet porn, for those of you without teenage sons making your movie choices, are those movies that heavily feature "snappy" one liners, lingering close ups of various bits of weaponry, lovingly recorded rapid gunshots and a couple of guys. Throw in explosions, helicopters or better yet, exploding helicopters and you won't hear intelligible conversation from the male population of your house for days at a time. Good wholesome entertainment, for sure.
I managed to purge the vast majority of the VHS tapes, keeping only those very few that I haven't been able to find of DVD yet...keep your eyes open for a copy of "Noises Off" for me! I unloaded a dozen or so old "Rugrats" tapes on a co-worker and the rest are going to the library if they'll take them. Yay for me!
The basement is proving a much bigger problem, mainly because I'm refusing to do any of it by myself. We tend, as a group, to allow ourselves to become completely distracted by the air hockey game and lose most of our cleaning mojo as a result. However, I have become quite a force to be reckoned with as far as the game goes. But I digress, we're not here to discuss my formidable bar game skills, we were talking about the basement. We have managed to weed through roughly 8,731 strings of mini Christmas lights and ended up with four that actually work. Thank goodness that they go one sale for about a buck right after the holidays. I'm not entirely sure why half the Halloween decorations ended up in one of the Christmas decor boxes, I'm CONVINCED that we did not leave our Halloween stuff up until sometime after Thanksgiving...that would be the sign of a true procrastinator, and that is not me. Stop giggling, I'm serious here. Remember the keys I threw away? Found out what #3 was meant to unlock, there's a mysterious storage cabinet in a far corner of that basement that none of us could even begin to remember what we put into it that made a lock necessary. Huge bummer. After several phone calls to Dan's buddies, we located a bolt cutter, wrestled the mangled lock out of it home and opened to cabinet. I admit to some rather breathless excitement as we opened the door to find...all the leftover paint from when we first bought the house. Do you know what happened to Latex paint after about seven years? The majority if it congeals into a dumpling-like mass at the bottom of the can while the rest of it clings, mosslike and stringy, to the rim of the can. Those colors that look so great on your walls look pretty unappetizing in this form. Again, I sorely regret my key-tossing into the trash. I know those other three are going to haunt me, I can feel them, reaching out to me from the landfill, following me and waiting, waiting so very patiently until each key's true purpose has been revealed and I have been punished. You'll see.
The basement is about halfway to the goal and we have one weekend left in this month, cross your fingers. All that's left for the other project is to weed through the CD collection and make sure the cases and the contents match...no problem!
Something weird is going on in my bedroom, I think I need to buy new humidifiers next fall because I don't think they're keeping up very well. My Zen fountain (now that it's actually put together properly) runs beautifully and is as soothing as advertised, but it seems to be going through a lot more water than a recirculating fountain should. We have forced air heat in the house and the furnace runs quite a bit, so I'm guessing it's simply that dry in my house. I know it is, the boys love nothing more that getting off the couch or out of the recliner and carefully making their way around the room, touching nothing, until they can sneak up behind an unsuspecting member of the household and give them a good zap to the ear. Anyway, I have another reason to look forward to spring, I won't need to add water to the fountain as often as I do now.
I managed to purge the vast majority of the VHS tapes, keeping only those very few that I haven't been able to find of DVD yet...keep your eyes open for a copy of "Noises Off" for me! I unloaded a dozen or so old "Rugrats" tapes on a co-worker and the rest are going to the library if they'll take them. Yay for me!
The basement is proving a much bigger problem, mainly because I'm refusing to do any of it by myself. We tend, as a group, to allow ourselves to become completely distracted by the air hockey game and lose most of our cleaning mojo as a result. However, I have become quite a force to be reckoned with as far as the game goes. But I digress, we're not here to discuss my formidable bar game skills, we were talking about the basement. We have managed to weed through roughly 8,731 strings of mini Christmas lights and ended up with four that actually work. Thank goodness that they go one sale for about a buck right after the holidays. I'm not entirely sure why half the Halloween decorations ended up in one of the Christmas decor boxes, I'm CONVINCED that we did not leave our Halloween stuff up until sometime after Thanksgiving...that would be the sign of a true procrastinator, and that is not me. Stop giggling, I'm serious here. Remember the keys I threw away? Found out what #3 was meant to unlock, there's a mysterious storage cabinet in a far corner of that basement that none of us could even begin to remember what we put into it that made a lock necessary. Huge bummer. After several phone calls to Dan's buddies, we located a bolt cutter, wrestled the mangled lock out of it home and opened to cabinet. I admit to some rather breathless excitement as we opened the door to find...all the leftover paint from when we first bought the house. Do you know what happened to Latex paint after about seven years? The majority if it congeals into a dumpling-like mass at the bottom of the can while the rest of it clings, mosslike and stringy, to the rim of the can. Those colors that look so great on your walls look pretty unappetizing in this form. Again, I sorely regret my key-tossing into the trash. I know those other three are going to haunt me, I can feel them, reaching out to me from the landfill, following me and waiting, waiting so very patiently until each key's true purpose has been revealed and I have been punished. You'll see.
The basement is about halfway to the goal and we have one weekend left in this month, cross your fingers. All that's left for the other project is to weed through the CD collection and make sure the cases and the contents match...no problem!
Something weird is going on in my bedroom, I think I need to buy new humidifiers next fall because I don't think they're keeping up very well. My Zen fountain (now that it's actually put together properly) runs beautifully and is as soothing as advertised, but it seems to be going through a lot more water than a recirculating fountain should. We have forced air heat in the house and the furnace runs quite a bit, so I'm guessing it's simply that dry in my house. I know it is, the boys love nothing more that getting off the couch or out of the recliner and carefully making their way around the room, touching nothing, until they can sneak up behind an unsuspecting member of the household and give them a good zap to the ear. Anyway, I have another reason to look forward to spring, I won't need to add water to the fountain as often as I do now.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Happy Easter?
Today is Easter Sunday, for those of raised in that tradition, the day of renewal, ressurection and lots and lots of sugar. I love that this one of the biggest days in those Christian faiths but is TOTALLY based on the pagan calendar. Easter is always the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Vernal Equinox. If that ain't pagan, I don't know what is. But we're not going to talk about that now, are we? Traditionally, Easter has been that hallmark of the coming season of renewal, the tulips and crocus should be poking theit first tentative shoots out of the ground. Or, we can get slammed with another six inches of snow. Fine, be that way. I'll pull my parka over my soft, floaty pastel skirt and twinset. I'll forgo the peeptoe pumps for my boots, no Easter bonnets for us, we're still wearing the Floyd R. Turbo hats with the earflaps.
Several years ago, when my nephew was going to a rather steadfast Christain daycare (I think he was about four) and his sister was going to the Catholic school down the street, they both came home just before Easter with the spoils from their respective Easter celebrations. My niece happily showed her jellybeans, chocolate eggs and Peeps while my nephew revealed his treasures. He brought home a number of small plastic eggs and prepared to enjoy his own booty. One can imagine his confusion when his eggs revealed, not jellybeans and chocolate, but items such as a rock, a thorn, a nail, a bit of purple cloth and a penny wrapped in tinfoil. He looked dismayed, to say the very least. Casey had received a set of ressurection eggs as opposed to the expected trove of candy. Look them up and imagine being four and getting this lot. My family, being more than a bit sacreligious from time to time, spent the holiday quoting the scene from "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" when they all look into their bags and announce, "I got a candy bar!", "I got an apple!" and poor Charlie Brown, with his bedsheet full of badly placed eyeholes, announced, "I got a rock." Poor Casey, I think at seventeen, he's since recovered.
We have our own set of traditions, the newest of which involves a couple of dozen Peeps (you know, the bright yellow marshmallow chicks that no one really eats but have become an Easter fixture) and the microwave oven. We have established that two Peeps, nuked at the same time, will actually expand to roughly ten times their normal size and build up enough pressure to move a Pyrex 2-cup measuring cup. The cup is in place to prevent Peep shrapnel from plastering the inside of the microwave with yellow goo upon reaching maximum volume. Maybe a non-traditional commemoration of the holiday, but a whole lot of fun. We did the usual hiding of the eggs thing, plastic and filled with candy, not hard-boiled and dyed. We eschewed the hard boiled because no one in the house likes them and the fact that I fear salmonella. I know what you're thinking, none of us ever died from eating eggs that sat out overnight, but now that I'm an adult...gross. Add my psychopathic cats into the mix and I could easily see some kind of egg massacre going on while we slept. As it was, they seemed to have unearthed a few of the eggs overnight and played kitty hockey with them. The scattered remains of several mini Reeses and stray Hershey miniatures wrappers mixed in the cat yark this morning certainly told the tale. Both of them are currently in a post sugar crash coma on the back of the couch. I mean really, could you resist basking in the sun while on your comedown from a sugar high? By the way, never give a dog jellybeans...the endless chewing will drive you slowly insane, more effective than waterboarding as a form of torture, methinks. So we've adapted the Easter as a time of experimentation and non-traditional observations, I'm sure you all have your own holiday weirdness at your house.
Time to go out and shovel the driveway...happy Spring?
Several years ago, when my nephew was going to a rather steadfast Christain daycare (I think he was about four) and his sister was going to the Catholic school down the street, they both came home just before Easter with the spoils from their respective Easter celebrations. My niece happily showed her jellybeans, chocolate eggs and Peeps while my nephew revealed his treasures. He brought home a number of small plastic eggs and prepared to enjoy his own booty. One can imagine his confusion when his eggs revealed, not jellybeans and chocolate, but items such as a rock, a thorn, a nail, a bit of purple cloth and a penny wrapped in tinfoil. He looked dismayed, to say the very least. Casey had received a set of ressurection eggs as opposed to the expected trove of candy. Look them up and imagine being four and getting this lot. My family, being more than a bit sacreligious from time to time, spent the holiday quoting the scene from "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" when they all look into their bags and announce, "I got a candy bar!", "I got an apple!" and poor Charlie Brown, with his bedsheet full of badly placed eyeholes, announced, "I got a rock." Poor Casey, I think at seventeen, he's since recovered.
We have our own set of traditions, the newest of which involves a couple of dozen Peeps (you know, the bright yellow marshmallow chicks that no one really eats but have become an Easter fixture) and the microwave oven. We have established that two Peeps, nuked at the same time, will actually expand to roughly ten times their normal size and build up enough pressure to move a Pyrex 2-cup measuring cup. The cup is in place to prevent Peep shrapnel from plastering the inside of the microwave with yellow goo upon reaching maximum volume. Maybe a non-traditional commemoration of the holiday, but a whole lot of fun. We did the usual hiding of the eggs thing, plastic and filled with candy, not hard-boiled and dyed. We eschewed the hard boiled because no one in the house likes them and the fact that I fear salmonella. I know what you're thinking, none of us ever died from eating eggs that sat out overnight, but now that I'm an adult...gross. Add my psychopathic cats into the mix and I could easily see some kind of egg massacre going on while we slept. As it was, they seemed to have unearthed a few of the eggs overnight and played kitty hockey with them. The scattered remains of several mini Reeses and stray Hershey miniatures wrappers mixed in the cat yark this morning certainly told the tale. Both of them are currently in a post sugar crash coma on the back of the couch. I mean really, could you resist basking in the sun while on your comedown from a sugar high? By the way, never give a dog jellybeans...the endless chewing will drive you slowly insane, more effective than waterboarding as a form of torture, methinks. So we've adapted the Easter as a time of experimentation and non-traditional observations, I'm sure you all have your own holiday weirdness at your house.
Time to go out and shovel the driveway...happy Spring?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Does Media REALLY Matter?
The small March project should probably be reclassified as the "Holy crap where did all this stuff come from and why have I kept it all and how the heck am I supposed to make sense of all this" project. For starters, I have the five shelf bookcases, at least one in every room and every single one is at maximum capacity. Now this is really great, we are a devoted group of bibliophiles in my house, but honestly, things have gotten a bit out of hand. As much as I've loved "Goodnight Moon", "If I Ran The Circus" and the entire "If You Give A _____ A _____" series, it might be time to let go of them. You can NEVER just throw a book away, it seems fundamentally wrong somehow. I imagine a cadre of heavily armed librarians decending from zip lines, bursting through my windows and battering down the front door like some kind of literary SWAT team if I even think of tossing a book into the garbage, no matter what kind of shape it's in. Yes, this is the kind of thought that wakes me up at night. So, confronted with bookcases filled well beyond their natural capacity, what is a girl to do? Time for another of my now famous (infamous?) sorting undertakings. Again I am faced with a crucial decision, is this to be another stealth mission or do I involve the others? The last time I consulted with anyone other than the animals, it did not end well. However, your books become terribly important over time and I think a stealth mission would probably result in a peasant uprising around here. The benevolent dictator would fall.
With my post as president for life at stake, I have given each member of the household their own personal mission, guided but not dictated by yours truly. They each must reduce the contents of their own personal bookcase. They will be weeding out anything they no longer care to read or those that never piqued their interest. Obvious hand me down-able material will be utilized, everything else will be donated to either the library or the used bookstore. Thus avoiding an onslaught of disgruntled librarial professionals. This was an interesting afternoon, I got a real chance to see where my kids' interests have taken them and to see what has held onto them over the course of time. Andrew happily passed his "Goosebumps" books to his brother but held tight to "The Tale Of Desperaux" that he's had for at least four years. Charlie readily gave up the majority of his Dr. Seuss books but refused to part with "I Love You Forever". My beloved held onto every single "National Geographic" magazine we've ever gotten but dumped a couple of dozen Zane Grey's into the box. I think I was the worst offender today. I HATE getting rid of books, even if I haven't opened the pages for several years. There is a chance that someday I MIGHT want to read "The Flame And The Flower" again, you just never know. With the love and support of my family, their strength quietly filling me, I was able to sacrifice my extensive Kathleen E. Woodiwiss collection, some of the crappier Nora Roberts stuff and my second set of the John Jakes Kent family chronicles series (Charlie was scandalized the a book titled "The Bastard") among plenty of others. I also managed to get rid of a half dozen cookbooks that I've never made a single recipe from. I really need to stay out of the cookbook section when I'm hungry.
Step one is finished, the unruly books have been tamed and the used bookstore loves us. Next we tackle our movies...both VHS and DVD, this isn't going to be pretty, I can't feel it.
With my post as president for life at stake, I have given each member of the household their own personal mission, guided but not dictated by yours truly. They each must reduce the contents of their own personal bookcase. They will be weeding out anything they no longer care to read or those that never piqued their interest. Obvious hand me down-able material will be utilized, everything else will be donated to either the library or the used bookstore. Thus avoiding an onslaught of disgruntled librarial professionals. This was an interesting afternoon, I got a real chance to see where my kids' interests have taken them and to see what has held onto them over the course of time. Andrew happily passed his "Goosebumps" books to his brother but held tight to "The Tale Of Desperaux" that he's had for at least four years. Charlie readily gave up the majority of his Dr. Seuss books but refused to part with "I Love You Forever". My beloved held onto every single "National Geographic" magazine we've ever gotten but dumped a couple of dozen Zane Grey's into the box. I think I was the worst offender today. I HATE getting rid of books, even if I haven't opened the pages for several years. There is a chance that someday I MIGHT want to read "The Flame And The Flower" again, you just never know. With the love and support of my family, their strength quietly filling me, I was able to sacrifice my extensive Kathleen E. Woodiwiss collection, some of the crappier Nora Roberts stuff and my second set of the John Jakes Kent family chronicles series (Charlie was scandalized the a book titled "The Bastard") among plenty of others. I also managed to get rid of a half dozen cookbooks that I've never made a single recipe from. I really need to stay out of the cookbook section when I'm hungry.
Step one is finished, the unruly books have been tamed and the used bookstore loves us. Next we tackle our movies...both VHS and DVD, this isn't going to be pretty, I can't feel it.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Marching On
Okay, the break's over and I have GOT to recommit to "THE PROJECT". It's become an all caps thing, I have met with my first defeat of the process, I did not get the photos done last month. I got them kind of sorted into boxes, the boxes labeled, the neglected film developed and I bought a digital camera to avoid this happening again but that was it. However, I did get the clothing sorted, folded and a purge was done. At least all the clothes in the house currently fit the owner or are packed neatly away until Charlie grows. This month, I'm going to tackle the basement (my seasonal items are one big scrambled mess) and weeding through our movies, music and books. March has also traditionally been the month for community theater productions (gotta get on stage before the participating farmer types go into the field).
Community theater is such a funny world unto itself, anyone who has seen "Waiting For Guffman" (and if you haven't, I highly recommend) can relate. There are those involved who take the whole thing FAR too seriously, those who see it as a purely social occasion and the rest of us. We're going to do our darndest to put on a good show but we also have no delusions about our talent. We know that our singing sounds best at the highest possible volume and only after several shots of courage. We're aware that our acting skills are never going to pay the bills. We comprehend that the set only looks like what it's supposed to look like from a good distance away and then only when you tilt your head the right way while slightly closing your left eye. I do love the rehearsals, all cast members are never all there on any given night, so people are invariably darting from spot to spot and frequently having conversations with themselves. The director and assorted cast members' children are usually tapped to fill in, my kid knows almost everyone's lines by opening night.
Costuming a community theater production poses its own set of challenges. We try to stay away from period productions, mainly because finding hoop skirts, tall pre-French revolution powdered wigs and buckled shoes for men in this neck of the woods just isn't going to happen. We rely on our cast members' attics, basements, and parents' houses. The lovely lady in my town who has an impressive colection of vintage and castoff clothing in her basement and rents out items for just this type of thing is a Godsend. The local hospital is a good resource if we're doing a medical based production, everyone finds what they can. A couple of years ago, I ended up playing the heavily padded, ten gallon hat wearing, heavily mustachioed mayor of the small western town in which our production was set. This was last minute, as the guy who'd agreed to play the part kind of fell off the face of the earth with two weeks to go before showtime. EEEEeeeek! With a tiny budget and a limited amount of liquid latex, I decided to delay building my facial hair until the day of dress rehearsal. Having taken that day off work, I was happily in my jammies (pink satin with purple hearts all over them) in the bathroom with the lower half of my face covered with dark brown hair (having decided to add huge sideburns at the last second) and waiting for the liquid latex to set. This crucial, as the whole thing will molt alarmingly if you don't let it dry for at least ten minutes after sticking the hair onto the latex. This needs to be done on the face that's going to wear the finished products or else it just looks weird. Like a thirty something year old redheaded woman playing the Spanish male mayor of a town isn't stretching it just a bit. So there I stand, in my pink jammies, my then mid-back length, curly, curly, curly, RED hair all over the place with this weird mass of synthetic hair congealing on my face and the worst imaginable thing happened...the doorbell rang.
I know what you're thinking...don't answer it. The thought did frantically cross my mind as I headed to the front window to peek out through the curtains and saw the UPS guy standing there with a LARGE box that I knew I had to sign for. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath and summoning up every bit of calm I could muster, I opened the door to the UPS man. He was looking at his little handheld computer thing as the door opened and to his credit, did not fall off my front step as he looked up. He visibly flinched and look of rather pronounced alarm crossed his face as he quite cautiously asked "Are you Elizabeth?" "That's me!" I brightly replied and reached for the pen to sign my very girly, loopy signature. He stared for just a moment before asking "Are you sure?". He hesitated for a second, took in the whole effect once more (likely commiting it to memory either for retelling back at the office or in case he needed to make a statement to the police at some point) and watched apprehensively as I scribbled my name and took my box into the house. I noticed that his truck stayed parked outside my house for several minutes and I saw him lean forward to look at the front of the house several times while talking on his phone. Oddly, the next time I got a delivery from UPS, it was a different guy.
Community theater is such a funny world unto itself, anyone who has seen "Waiting For Guffman" (and if you haven't, I highly recommend) can relate. There are those involved who take the whole thing FAR too seriously, those who see it as a purely social occasion and the rest of us. We're going to do our darndest to put on a good show but we also have no delusions about our talent. We know that our singing sounds best at the highest possible volume and only after several shots of courage. We're aware that our acting skills are never going to pay the bills. We comprehend that the set only looks like what it's supposed to look like from a good distance away and then only when you tilt your head the right way while slightly closing your left eye. I do love the rehearsals, all cast members are never all there on any given night, so people are invariably darting from spot to spot and frequently having conversations with themselves. The director and assorted cast members' children are usually tapped to fill in, my kid knows almost everyone's lines by opening night.
Costuming a community theater production poses its own set of challenges. We try to stay away from period productions, mainly because finding hoop skirts, tall pre-French revolution powdered wigs and buckled shoes for men in this neck of the woods just isn't going to happen. We rely on our cast members' attics, basements, and parents' houses. The lovely lady in my town who has an impressive colection of vintage and castoff clothing in her basement and rents out items for just this type of thing is a Godsend. The local hospital is a good resource if we're doing a medical based production, everyone finds what they can. A couple of years ago, I ended up playing the heavily padded, ten gallon hat wearing, heavily mustachioed mayor of the small western town in which our production was set. This was last minute, as the guy who'd agreed to play the part kind of fell off the face of the earth with two weeks to go before showtime. EEEEeeeek! With a tiny budget and a limited amount of liquid latex, I decided to delay building my facial hair until the day of dress rehearsal. Having taken that day off work, I was happily in my jammies (pink satin with purple hearts all over them) in the bathroom with the lower half of my face covered with dark brown hair (having decided to add huge sideburns at the last second) and waiting for the liquid latex to set. This crucial, as the whole thing will molt alarmingly if you don't let it dry for at least ten minutes after sticking the hair onto the latex. This needs to be done on the face that's going to wear the finished products or else it just looks weird. Like a thirty something year old redheaded woman playing the Spanish male mayor of a town isn't stretching it just a bit. So there I stand, in my pink jammies, my then mid-back length, curly, curly, curly, RED hair all over the place with this weird mass of synthetic hair congealing on my face and the worst imaginable thing happened...the doorbell rang.
I know what you're thinking...don't answer it. The thought did frantically cross my mind as I headed to the front window to peek out through the curtains and saw the UPS guy standing there with a LARGE box that I knew I had to sign for. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath and summoning up every bit of calm I could muster, I opened the door to the UPS man. He was looking at his little handheld computer thing as the door opened and to his credit, did not fall off my front step as he looked up. He visibly flinched and look of rather pronounced alarm crossed his face as he quite cautiously asked "Are you Elizabeth?" "That's me!" I brightly replied and reached for the pen to sign my very girly, loopy signature. He stared for just a moment before asking "Are you sure?". He hesitated for a second, took in the whole effect once more (likely commiting it to memory either for retelling back at the office or in case he needed to make a statement to the police at some point) and watched apprehensively as I scribbled my name and took my box into the house. I noticed that his truck stayed parked outside my house for several minutes and I saw him lean forward to look at the front of the house several times while talking on his phone. Oddly, the next time I got a delivery from UPS, it was a different guy.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Road Trip
Took a little break from the projects, runny noses and life in general this week and took a mini road trip with my 14 year old son. He and I are music lovers, we're both HUGE Foo Fighters fans and we had the opportunity to see them in concert in Minneapolis this week. It's been a few years since I hit a big, loud, scream your head off rock concert; it's much like riding a bike, you never forget how to do it. I will admit right here and now that I have a major crush on Dave Grohl, there, I said it...someday he'll come knocking on my door and pledge his undying love for me, I know he will. It's okay, I'll wait.
This was my son's first BIG concert and he had a blast, even in the company of his mother. He has, however, decided that the next concert he goes to, he wants main floor general admission tickets. Seeing the body surfing and the people all squished up near the stage held enormous appeal to him. That's going to have to be a trip without me, though. I haven't been in a mosh-type pit since I started having babies. That's just bit too much sweaty up close and personal with strangers for this old broad. I do love watching the security guards at these events, they know they're really there to keep people off the stage and to catch (in their arms, I mean) the body surfers that end up getting dumped over the barricade. They were a good humored and patient bunch, sending the surfers off to the back of the general admission area, knowing that they'd see that same person again in about fifteen minutes, about as long as it seemed to take some of the more dedicated types to work their way back up to the front. I never did the body surf/stage diving thing, that takes more trust in total strangers than I'm able to muster, or ever was. It was nice to see that the crowd was a pretty even mix between the late teen and twentians and those of us with the stray gray hair and a wrinkle or two. I've got to say, I can't remember the last time I 'wooooooo'-ed that much in public. There's something about being in a crowd of people all singing the same song (and I'm not dissing the national anthem or anything, but it's really not the same) at the top of their lungs and not caring a bit who might overhear them. We drove 300 miles in horrible Minnesota winter weather and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
It's pretty rare these days that I get totally uninterrupted time with either of my kids, so the treat of the whole event was doubled for me. For the first time in a long time, it was just me and my son by ourselves for more than a trip to the store or a ride to an appointment. We got a chance to really catch up, to talk about things other than homework, practice schedules or jobs around the house. The usual "How was your day?" conversations are great, but we got to cover all kinds of stuff in the five hour ride and the same ride home. We didn't get into anything heavy, no birds and the bees talk or anything, but music, books, movies, politics and darn near anything else out there. It's nice to be able to talk about that kind of stuff with your kid, kind of gives you a different perspective. I know my kids consider thenselves liberals just like me, but his reasons and logic behind his opinions are coming from a very different place that rather fascinated me.
We're going to have to this again, really soon. Dave doesn't love me yet....but he will.
This was my son's first BIG concert and he had a blast, even in the company of his mother. He has, however, decided that the next concert he goes to, he wants main floor general admission tickets. Seeing the body surfing and the people all squished up near the stage held enormous appeal to him. That's going to have to be a trip without me, though. I haven't been in a mosh-type pit since I started having babies. That's just bit too much sweaty up close and personal with strangers for this old broad. I do love watching the security guards at these events, they know they're really there to keep people off the stage and to catch (in their arms, I mean) the body surfers that end up getting dumped over the barricade. They were a good humored and patient bunch, sending the surfers off to the back of the general admission area, knowing that they'd see that same person again in about fifteen minutes, about as long as it seemed to take some of the more dedicated types to work their way back up to the front. I never did the body surf/stage diving thing, that takes more trust in total strangers than I'm able to muster, or ever was. It was nice to see that the crowd was a pretty even mix between the late teen and twentians and those of us with the stray gray hair and a wrinkle or two. I've got to say, I can't remember the last time I 'wooooooo'-ed that much in public. There's something about being in a crowd of people all singing the same song (and I'm not dissing the national anthem or anything, but it's really not the same) at the top of their lungs and not caring a bit who might overhear them. We drove 300 miles in horrible Minnesota winter weather and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
It's pretty rare these days that I get totally uninterrupted time with either of my kids, so the treat of the whole event was doubled for me. For the first time in a long time, it was just me and my son by ourselves for more than a trip to the store or a ride to an appointment. We got a chance to really catch up, to talk about things other than homework, practice schedules or jobs around the house. The usual "How was your day?" conversations are great, but we got to cover all kinds of stuff in the five hour ride and the same ride home. We didn't get into anything heavy, no birds and the bees talk or anything, but music, books, movies, politics and darn near anything else out there. It's nice to be able to talk about that kind of stuff with your kid, kind of gives you a different perspective. I know my kids consider thenselves liberals just like me, but his reasons and logic behind his opinions are coming from a very different place that rather fascinated me.
We're going to have to this again, really soon. Dave doesn't love me yet....but he will.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Clothes Part Deux
Okay, a little break and now back to the projects at hand. Time to turn my attention back to the clothing and the photos…sigh. Charlie’s room is done, onto Andrew’s, this is where it’s going to get a little tougher since he’s growing like a weed and is continually getting “good” clothes from his two older cousins. Andrew is also getting to the point where he definitely has his favorite items of clothing to wear and it’s becoming a bit of a bone of contention between the two of us. My position is that you put on clean clothes every single day. He maintains that if the clothes aren’t actively trying to crawl into the hamper on their own they’re not dirty and if the item still even slightly resembles it’s original shape and color, it’s still good. We really have got to find some middle ground on this one. Or I can just seize my opportunity while he’s at school, that’s the plan at this point.
That's not going to work, dammit. He's growing so fast that clothes I bought mere weeks ago don't fit anymore. I'm going to need his actual body here before I can legitimately throw a single item away or put them in storage...shoot! This project has suddenly taken an ugly turn, up until this point, I have been able to purge items with reckless abandon. I have been the only authority, my opinion of what's tossable has been the only that mattered, it seems that time has passed. A moment to mourn my organizational autonomy. Deep sigh and off to corral the resistant boy. He's going to LOVE this project as it's going to consume PS2 time and require effort on his part...and trying on every pair of pants currently stuffed in his dresser. Threats and bribery may be my only options here. What can I offer a fourteen year old boy in exchange for repeatedly dressing and undressing over the course of an afternoon? I'm thinking the "you'll have a clean room and organized dresser" reward probably isn't as appealing to him as it is to me. The "I'm not doing your laundry until this is done" threat really doesn't seem to strike the desired amount of terror into his teenaged heart as I had hoped. I believe he was mocking me when he fell to his knees, grabbed my ankles and cried "Please mom, anything but THAT!" And once upon a time I was THRILLED he was talking...but that was long, long ago.
I have discovered recently that many 'conversations' with my son don't seem to require any talking on my part. The Playstation and this very computer are in the same room, frequently he's on the PS2 while I'm here at my trusty keyboard, he keeps a running patter going while he refights WW2 and I don't think I'm actually supposed to respond. On the rare occasions he says something I think is directed at me and respond accordingly, I get a rather withering stare and a "I was talking to the guy on the game." Silly me, I thought it was just digitally created figures on a Tv screen, ain't technology grand?
That's not going to work, dammit. He's growing so fast that clothes I bought mere weeks ago don't fit anymore. I'm going to need his actual body here before I can legitimately throw a single item away or put them in storage...shoot! This project has suddenly taken an ugly turn, up until this point, I have been able to purge items with reckless abandon. I have been the only authority, my opinion of what's tossable has been the only that mattered, it seems that time has passed. A moment to mourn my organizational autonomy. Deep sigh and off to corral the resistant boy. He's going to LOVE this project as it's going to consume PS2 time and require effort on his part...and trying on every pair of pants currently stuffed in his dresser. Threats and bribery may be my only options here. What can I offer a fourteen year old boy in exchange for repeatedly dressing and undressing over the course of an afternoon? I'm thinking the "you'll have a clean room and organized dresser" reward probably isn't as appealing to him as it is to me. The "I'm not doing your laundry until this is done" threat really doesn't seem to strike the desired amount of terror into his teenaged heart as I had hoped. I believe he was mocking me when he fell to his knees, grabbed my ankles and cried "Please mom, anything but THAT!" And once upon a time I was THRILLED he was talking...but that was long, long ago.
I have discovered recently that many 'conversations' with my son don't seem to require any talking on my part. The Playstation and this very computer are in the same room, frequently he's on the PS2 while I'm here at my trusty keyboard, he keeps a running patter going while he refights WW2 and I don't think I'm actually supposed to respond. On the rare occasions he says something I think is directed at me and respond accordingly, I get a rather withering stare and a "I was talking to the guy on the game." Silly me, I thought it was just digitally created figures on a Tv screen, ain't technology grand?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Fruits of Labor
Now that I have paid the drug store the equivalent of the yearly operating budget of a small European country, I have retrieved all my film and am confronted with the photographic evidence of my organizational transgressions. Shame on me, I look through the envelopes at pictures of Christmas concerts, first steps and family gatherings long past and my resolve is stiffened, I will conquer my own chaos and perhaps branch out to assist others in their own personal journeys toward serenity. That could be the key to my first million! A home-based business, I come in and teach the lost and suffering souls how to achieve Nirvana by alphabetizing their CD collections and perfecting their household’s entire organizational structure. But back to me, it’s with more than a little dismay that I realize one of the envelopes of photos include a friend’s wedding and he and his delighted looking bride in the photographs have been divorced for a year and a half. I’m thinking I won’t be forwarding them the second set of prints I ordered. For now these pictures will join their neglected brethren in the teetering pile of shoeboxes currently living in the guest room. I promise, I’ll come back for you! I swear can hear them calling “Come back, Shane!” as I shut the door.
My dear friend Eden called from Miami today and announced that she saw on CNN this morning that we were eighty degrees below zero with the wind chill and that she’s roughly one hundred and sixty degrees warmer at her house and is going swimming in the back yard this afternoon. There’s really only one appropriate response to a statement like this: “Bite Me” and hang up the phone. She'll get hers, though...hurricane season isn't that far away.
My reward for sticking with this project for more than a few days arrived yesterday. The fountain for the Zen bedroom I've been bidding for on Ebay is here! It's currently filling our bedroom with the gentle murmur of water falling over rocks in a riverbed. It took some doing to get to this point as the phrase “some assembly required” came into play, and by “some” they actually meant “you might as well take a welding class, apprentice to a plumber and grow your own bamboo, it’ll be less time-consuming”, bastards. Both cats and the dog seem quite interested in the new addition to our room but they’ll leave it alone once the newness wears off, right?
Upon opening the box yesterday, I realized with a sinking heart that this was a project that would have to wait for the clear light of day before proceeding and there was no way I was getting it put together before bed last night. Looking at the list of tools needed to assemble this wonder of engineering, it called for a 6mm metric nut driver and a T9 bit Torx screwdriver. Of these, I understood the word “nut” and the word “screwdriver”, I was in over my head upon opening the box. Oh boy. The decision was made to tackle this one anew in the morning. There are certain benefits to living in a farming based area, those farm boys have tools the rest of the world couldn’t begin to imagine and hidden stores of ingenuity that can save your sanity in times like this. A couple of calls to Dan’s buddies and soon we had the resources needed to assemble the calm-inducing, inner-peace bringing bit of the Far East I found on Ebay. So the inner peace and Zen-like calm was hard won, Dan and I have decided that we can work on separate projects in the same room but never on the same project together…ever again. If he’d just do things the way I think they should be done, it would have been hunky-dory, but nooooooo, he has to be all instruction-reading, direction-following and I know he does it just to piss me off.
My dear friend Eden called from Miami today and announced that she saw on CNN this morning that we were eighty degrees below zero with the wind chill and that she’s roughly one hundred and sixty degrees warmer at her house and is going swimming in the back yard this afternoon. There’s really only one appropriate response to a statement like this: “Bite Me” and hang up the phone. She'll get hers, though...hurricane season isn't that far away.
My reward for sticking with this project for more than a few days arrived yesterday. The fountain for the Zen bedroom I've been bidding for on Ebay is here! It's currently filling our bedroom with the gentle murmur of water falling over rocks in a riverbed. It took some doing to get to this point as the phrase “some assembly required” came into play, and by “some” they actually meant “you might as well take a welding class, apprentice to a plumber and grow your own bamboo, it’ll be less time-consuming”, bastards. Both cats and the dog seem quite interested in the new addition to our room but they’ll leave it alone once the newness wears off, right?
Upon opening the box yesterday, I realized with a sinking heart that this was a project that would have to wait for the clear light of day before proceeding and there was no way I was getting it put together before bed last night. Looking at the list of tools needed to assemble this wonder of engineering, it called for a 6mm metric nut driver and a T9 bit Torx screwdriver. Of these, I understood the word “nut” and the word “screwdriver”, I was in over my head upon opening the box. Oh boy. The decision was made to tackle this one anew in the morning. There are certain benefits to living in a farming based area, those farm boys have tools the rest of the world couldn’t begin to imagine and hidden stores of ingenuity that can save your sanity in times like this. A couple of calls to Dan’s buddies and soon we had the resources needed to assemble the calm-inducing, inner-peace bringing bit of the Far East I found on Ebay. So the inner peace and Zen-like calm was hard won, Dan and I have decided that we can work on separate projects in the same room but never on the same project together…ever again. If he’d just do things the way I think they should be done, it would have been hunky-dory, but nooooooo, he has to be all instruction-reading, direction-following and I know he does it just to piss me off.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
It's About That Time
Well, it's happened, I am now a woman of a certain age. The big 4-0. Yeah, whatever, I really don't feel all that different from 30, or 35 or 39 for that matter. My beloved had the idea to throw the big surprise party and I did put the kibosh on that. This has nothing to do with any kind of angst about my age, I simply didn't see it as that big of a deal. Here's my idea for a perfect birthday, no matter what age I'm observing: I want to sleep until I wake up on my own, I want to watch what I want on the television and I don't want to cook unless I feel like it. That's about it, throw in a couple of "Happy Birthdays" and I'm pretty good to go. So far so good at this point. I think we're going out for dinner tonight and maybe I'll even have dessert...that's the plan.
Onward to this month's mission update:
Happily, I now have a digital camera so this will never plague me again.
The photo project begun with the delivery of somewhere in the neighborhood of 87 rolls of film to the drug store, it’s time to start going through every dresser, box and closet in the house. The goal is a search and rescue for neglected, forgotten or long lost items of clothing. Might as well start in Charlie’s room, as the youngest human member of the house, anything that doesn’t fit him can go away without argument, rationalization or plea for mercy. Since the dresser is the largest piece of furniture in the room, it seems like as a good a place as any to begin. The mission is clear, anything stained, ripped, unbearably ugly (though with my impeccable taste, not possible) or outgrown is GONE. A large lawn and leaf bag and three cardboard boxes are the only gear I need today, there will be no hesitation, no need for reinforcements, this is a simple, straightforward process. The easiest thing to do is probably to empty the drawers and get everything that currently fits in order. This is going to be a snap, the first two drawers yield nothing more than socks and a rather alarming amount of underwear for the little guy…did I just buy him more instead of doing laundry at some point? Probably.
Recently, putting his own clean clothes away has become one of Charlie’s responsibilities and with some interesting results. Instead of going the traditional, shirts in one drawer, pants in another, it appears he’s gone for an aesthetically pleasing format of clothing storage. One drawer has nothing but blue items, one holds only red clothes a third contains both green and yellow. From the looks of it, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with clothing that had more than one color and just stuffed the lot into the remaining empty spaces. Now, do I keep true to Charlie’s vision or do I do the control freak thing and sort things into what I deem a proper arrangement? I’ll keep to his method, after all, he is coming down to breakfast every morning appropriately attired and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?
The contents of the dresser now piled (by color) on the floor, I turn my attention to the four gigantic Rubbermaid containers in the closet. This is where it’s going to get interesting as I started off labeling the outsides of the containers with the sizes of clothing stored inside and obviously abandoned that practice at some point in the long forgotten past…why? WHY? What kid wants to wear hand me downs? I should just chuck the lot and get it over with. No…NO, NO, NO! It would be completely irresponsible of me to throw away perfectly good clothing just because I can’t face the organizational sins of my past. Time to find a Sharpie and some large labels.
Three hours later, Charlie’s dresser is restocked, the clothing sorted by color instead of purpose, wasn’t that good and non-controlling of me? I realize the boy has more underwear than Mr. Hanes on his best day but his dresser is some kind of weird sock black hole. Still puzzling over that factoid, I turn my attention to the items that did not make the cut. I really should just toss it all, but I won’t. I resolved that I would do the right thing both environmentally and socially by donating as much as I could and only throwing away the clothes that are beyond reason. Okay, that’s done and I have two boxes to donate and only a dozen or so items to throw away. The storage containers are now clearly labeled and phase one of the clothing quest is complete. Woo-hoo!
I'll hit the teenager's room later...I think we're good for a couple of days.
Onward to this month's mission update:
Happily, I now have a digital camera so this will never plague me again.
The photo project begun with the delivery of somewhere in the neighborhood of 87 rolls of film to the drug store, it’s time to start going through every dresser, box and closet in the house. The goal is a search and rescue for neglected, forgotten or long lost items of clothing. Might as well start in Charlie’s room, as the youngest human member of the house, anything that doesn’t fit him can go away without argument, rationalization or plea for mercy. Since the dresser is the largest piece of furniture in the room, it seems like as a good a place as any to begin. The mission is clear, anything stained, ripped, unbearably ugly (though with my impeccable taste, not possible) or outgrown is GONE. A large lawn and leaf bag and three cardboard boxes are the only gear I need today, there will be no hesitation, no need for reinforcements, this is a simple, straightforward process. The easiest thing to do is probably to empty the drawers and get everything that currently fits in order. This is going to be a snap, the first two drawers yield nothing more than socks and a rather alarming amount of underwear for the little guy…did I just buy him more instead of doing laundry at some point? Probably.
Recently, putting his own clean clothes away has become one of Charlie’s responsibilities and with some interesting results. Instead of going the traditional, shirts in one drawer, pants in another, it appears he’s gone for an aesthetically pleasing format of clothing storage. One drawer has nothing but blue items, one holds only red clothes a third contains both green and yellow. From the looks of it, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with clothing that had more than one color and just stuffed the lot into the remaining empty spaces. Now, do I keep true to Charlie’s vision or do I do the control freak thing and sort things into what I deem a proper arrangement? I’ll keep to his method, after all, he is coming down to breakfast every morning appropriately attired and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?
The contents of the dresser now piled (by color) on the floor, I turn my attention to the four gigantic Rubbermaid containers in the closet. This is where it’s going to get interesting as I started off labeling the outsides of the containers with the sizes of clothing stored inside and obviously abandoned that practice at some point in the long forgotten past…why? WHY? What kid wants to wear hand me downs? I should just chuck the lot and get it over with. No…NO, NO, NO! It would be completely irresponsible of me to throw away perfectly good clothing just because I can’t face the organizational sins of my past. Time to find a Sharpie and some large labels.
Three hours later, Charlie’s dresser is restocked, the clothing sorted by color instead of purpose, wasn’t that good and non-controlling of me? I realize the boy has more underwear than Mr. Hanes on his best day but his dresser is some kind of weird sock black hole. Still puzzling over that factoid, I turn my attention to the items that did not make the cut. I really should just toss it all, but I won’t. I resolved that I would do the right thing both environmentally and socially by donating as much as I could and only throwing away the clothes that are beyond reason. Okay, that’s done and I have two boxes to donate and only a dozen or so items to throw away. The storage containers are now clearly labeled and phase one of the clothing quest is complete. Woo-hoo!
I'll hit the teenager's room later...I think we're good for a couple of days.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Sick Days
Aaah, midwinter. The time of cabin fever (and real fevers), butt clenching cold (and real colds) and the reaffirmation that mommies don't get sick days. It's simply not allowed. I'm not entirely sure if we did this to ourselves or if there's a rule somewhere, but we certainly don't allow ourselves a couple of days to feel lousy and do nothing but sniffle, sit on the couch and have someone bring us soup and the occasional piece of toast. Mommies feel we must maintain our normal programming at all costs, we're fine, we'll take care of everything just like we always do. Why is that? Is it because we know it won't get done without us or that it won't get done OUR way without us? I'm beginning to suspect it's the latter. I know for a fact the dishes won't get clean in the dishwasher if it's not loaded the way I load it. I'm completely convinced that the children will fail every class and never get into an Ivy League college if I'm not the one getting them off to school every single day. It's been proven that the children will turn into sociopaths if I don't get them to practice and make a decent dinner every night...right? This line of thinking is so burned into my brain that despite a fever and a sinus system that had been dipped in concrete, I did not bend, I kept on. Remember that scene from 'Star Wars" (the original of course), when the Rebels are attacking the Death Star and are being picked off one by one? The commander keeps saying "Stay on target." Boom! There goes another guy..."Stay on target." A zillion bad guys decending like flies..."Stay on target." until he's finally blown out of the sky. This is an example of the single mindedness I'm talking about.
You know, of course, that my family was fully aware and extremely appreciative of the effort it took mommy to muddle through the week and that they took special care of me when we were home for the evening. The kids were angels, the hubby was extra attentive to my needs and life was like a Calgon commercial (the part AFTER she's in the tub). Yeah, not really. The hubby was off ice fishing for the main part of the week and the kids were, well, kids. I'm not whining or feeling sorry for myself here, just simply observing that we've done this to ourselves. Silly mommies.
There really isn't much that's worse than a midwinter cold, summer colds stink but don't even come close on the misery scale to a runny nose in February. Living where I live, at this time of the year, things freeze quickly. Step outside with watering eyes and a runny nose and these things freeze too! Granted, you don't have to wipe as often, but boogers frozen to your upper lip really isn't a pleasant feeling, and the thawing out part, I'm going to let you all imagine THAT. The fever really isn't so bad, for the first time all winter, you're actually warm all the time without needing to dress in layers and huddle near a heat source. The bad part is that the cats quickly discover that YOU are a previously untapped heat source and spend all their time sitting on your chest. This is great some of the time, not so much when the previously discussed concrete has migrated into your chest cavity.
Cold medicine commercials really need to be rethought, I have never in my life experienced the instantaneous bliss that comes from a dose of Nyquil the commercials promise. My sleep isn't effortless and sniffle-free and the hangover the next day from 'nighttime' medicine as just as bad as one gained from a weekend bender at the bar, without the pool games and cigarettes. The daytime medicine commercials are equally deceptive, I don't have a spring in my step and a song in my heart after taking my daytime medicine. I'm upright and semi-aware of my surroundings, that's about all I can manage, even with the daytime wonder pill. I think most people don't really expect the advertised results, we're all just looking to be marginally functional until we get to collapse into bed with our new best friend...the Kleenex box and maybe a pot of Vicks Vapo-Rub.
I hope the children aren't going to be permanently affected by the past couple of weeks, Daddy's lengthy stay in Vicodin land and Mommy's current layover in Nyquil City are sure to have long term effects on their delicate little psyches and they're both going to become hoboes or politicians or worse and it will be all my fault. Because it's all up to the mommies, right?
You know, of course, that my family was fully aware and extremely appreciative of the effort it took mommy to muddle through the week and that they took special care of me when we were home for the evening. The kids were angels, the hubby was extra attentive to my needs and life was like a Calgon commercial (the part AFTER she's in the tub). Yeah, not really. The hubby was off ice fishing for the main part of the week and the kids were, well, kids. I'm not whining or feeling sorry for myself here, just simply observing that we've done this to ourselves. Silly mommies.
There really isn't much that's worse than a midwinter cold, summer colds stink but don't even come close on the misery scale to a runny nose in February. Living where I live, at this time of the year, things freeze quickly. Step outside with watering eyes and a runny nose and these things freeze too! Granted, you don't have to wipe as often, but boogers frozen to your upper lip really isn't a pleasant feeling, and the thawing out part, I'm going to let you all imagine THAT. The fever really isn't so bad, for the first time all winter, you're actually warm all the time without needing to dress in layers and huddle near a heat source. The bad part is that the cats quickly discover that YOU are a previously untapped heat source and spend all their time sitting on your chest. This is great some of the time, not so much when the previously discussed concrete has migrated into your chest cavity.
Cold medicine commercials really need to be rethought, I have never in my life experienced the instantaneous bliss that comes from a dose of Nyquil the commercials promise. My sleep isn't effortless and sniffle-free and the hangover the next day from 'nighttime' medicine as just as bad as one gained from a weekend bender at the bar, without the pool games and cigarettes. The daytime medicine commercials are equally deceptive, I don't have a spring in my step and a song in my heart after taking my daytime medicine. I'm upright and semi-aware of my surroundings, that's about all I can manage, even with the daytime wonder pill. I think most people don't really expect the advertised results, we're all just looking to be marginally functional until we get to collapse into bed with our new best friend...the Kleenex box and maybe a pot of Vicks Vapo-Rub.
I hope the children aren't going to be permanently affected by the past couple of weeks, Daddy's lengthy stay in Vicodin land and Mommy's current layover in Nyquil City are sure to have long term effects on their delicate little psyches and they're both going to become hoboes or politicians or worse and it will be all my fault. Because it's all up to the mommies, right?
Monday, February 4, 2008
Step Two
Looking at today's title, I realize that I've created my own little twelve step program here. Yesterday, I got to bask in the success of the two project a month goal met and only going slightly over my time limit. And as a reward, I found a perfect bamboo fountain for the bedroom on Ebay and started bidding on it. I’m thinking that if I get the winning bid on it, that means the Gods are smiling down on me and the Zen bedroom is truly possible.
Now that January is over, I should probably give some thought to the coming month and decide somewhat in advance what the projects are going to be this month.
Month one is under my belt, I have proven that the one major and one minor project plan is possible so now we’ll test the theory and see if I can do it two months in a row. Considering how much time we spend in the house in February, I’m going for projects that might still be somewhat enjoyable…to forestall the inevitable grumpiness that will come when I’m feeling overwhelmed.
Major project for the month: A purge of clothing that is beyond acceptably stained and all outgrown or never worn by its intended wearer. The minor project (and we’ll see how minor it is) will be sorting through and putting into albums the boxes upon boxes of photographs scattered throughout the house. At this writing, I see both as achievable goals and possibly enjoyable. I think the first step in the photos project is going to be to make a sweep of the house to track down any and all undeveloped rolls of film and get them to the drug store. This shouldn’t take much and will be a fairly easy way to get into the swing of things for the month.
February is also the month of greeting card insanity for my family, we have at least two birthdays per week for the entire month. Let me think…starting with one niece on the 25th of January, brother in law on the 2nd, dear friend on the 4th, sister on the 7th, Andrew on the 9th, nephew on the 13th, mine on the 16th, Ruth (the best woman in our wedding) on the 23rd, a second niece on the 25th and another niece on March 3rd…SHEESH! What gets into my family during the month of May?! I should just buy cards in bulk and send them all out in the first week of the month to cover all the bases. You know what, I think I might just do that when I go to the drug store to drop off the film. The whole two birds with one stone thing and all. I could cheat and call that one of my projects but I won’t…give me a second here to indulge in a little smug self-congratulations…okay, I’m done.
Now that January is over, I should probably give some thought to the coming month and decide somewhat in advance what the projects are going to be this month.
Month one is under my belt, I have proven that the one major and one minor project plan is possible so now we’ll test the theory and see if I can do it two months in a row. Considering how much time we spend in the house in February, I’m going for projects that might still be somewhat enjoyable…to forestall the inevitable grumpiness that will come when I’m feeling overwhelmed.
Major project for the month: A purge of clothing that is beyond acceptably stained and all outgrown or never worn by its intended wearer. The minor project (and we’ll see how minor it is) will be sorting through and putting into albums the boxes upon boxes of photographs scattered throughout the house. At this writing, I see both as achievable goals and possibly enjoyable. I think the first step in the photos project is going to be to make a sweep of the house to track down any and all undeveloped rolls of film and get them to the drug store. This shouldn’t take much and will be a fairly easy way to get into the swing of things for the month.
February is also the month of greeting card insanity for my family, we have at least two birthdays per week for the entire month. Let me think…starting with one niece on the 25th of January, brother in law on the 2nd, dear friend on the 4th, sister on the 7th, Andrew on the 9th, nephew on the 13th, mine on the 16th, Ruth (the best woman in our wedding) on the 23rd, a second niece on the 25th and another niece on March 3rd…SHEESH! What gets into my family during the month of May?! I should just buy cards in bulk and send them all out in the first week of the month to cover all the bases. You know what, I think I might just do that when I go to the drug store to drop off the film. The whole two birds with one stone thing and all. I could cheat and call that one of my projects but I won’t…give me a second here to indulge in a little smug self-congratulations…okay, I’m done.
Friday, February 1, 2008
The Secret Weapon
It’s been nearly a week and I’ve finally gotten to the final phase of the damned filing cabinet project. I’ve been to the office supply store and I am now stocked with hanging folders, labels for same and a whole new approach to this stupid, horrible mind-numbing project. I also bought the one weapon that will give me a big old “V” for Victory on this one…a paper shredder, the Paper Monster Junior. (Insert maniacal laughter here) There’s ABSOLUTELY no backing out once it’s been through the shredder. My husband is not to know of this particular item’s existence until the deed is done, we shall not speak of it. This, of course, also means that Charlie (the eight year old) is not to be alerted to this purchase.
Charlie considers it his sworn duty to keep the general public informed of any and all developments, misdeeds and ongoing events that enter his awareness. He has been known to call 911 and let them know that his mom has bad heartburn from that evening’s pizza. He has taken it upon himself to inform the patrons at the grocery store that root beer makes his dad burp really, really loud. One of his more memorable news flashes came at a family gathering at my parents house. I believe it was a Thanksgiving when he let the assorted cousins, aunts, uncles and various family friends know that his mom told his dad that she’d never understand why Aunt Wendy ever married a jerk like Uncle Gary. Since then, we tend to watch what Charlie gets to overhear.
Now armed for the coming battle, my enthusiasm restored and a fresh approach to the whole process, I attack the tottering piles with renewed vigor. I am out of time if I'm going to call this month a success, both projects completed and my journey to total bliss remaining on track. Several hours later I am nursing several paper cuts and a deep, burning resentment for whoever decided that keeping records of any sort was a good idea. The precariously balanced piles of earlier in the day have been re-sorted from the “KEEP” and “THROW” piles (you may have noticed the “CONSULT WITH HUSBAND” pile has been skillfully taken out of the equation) to smaller piles of related subject matter. That’s it for the day, this really is going to take a while. I’m thinking the weapon of mass destruction is going to have to stay safely hidden for another day. Tomorrow, we inaugurate the paper shredder…I can’t wait.
My husband notices my improved mood over dinner but wisely doesn’t pursue it any further than, “You’re pretty chipper tonight”. I think he suspects something.
THE NEXT DAY
This is it, D-Day for every unnecessary piece of correspondence in the house. Even the children sense something as I’ve made cinnamon rolls on a weekday morning when it’s not anyone’s birthday and we don’t have houseguests. I think perhaps I scared them a little bit when I started humming “Battle Hymn Of The Republic” and giggling from time to time over my coffee. They got ready in record time and fifteen minutes before the school bus was due, headed out into the dark, frozen morning to wait at the corner. I peeked through the curtains and saw them talking seriously as they shot nervous glances back toward the house. After watching carefully to make sure they actually got on the bus, I closed the drapes, locked the doors and turned my attention to the stacks of nonsense that have been plaguing me for the better part of two weeks. Like a scene from one of those senseless action movies the men in my life adore, I suited up. Instead of rounds of ammunition crisscrossing my chest, I have rolls of self-sticking labels. I wield neither machine gun nor grenade launcher, choosing instead to brandish a stapler and paper clips. I have no hidden cache of C-4 to pull out at the last minute to save the day, I need nothing more than the shredder, which I’ve decided to simply call “Junior”, to finish off my enemies. Appropriately attired and armed, Junior and I stepped into battle knowing the enemy was formidable but with no idea of the combined power it faced.
Four hours later, I have reduced the overwhelming mass of sheer crap in the office to one and a half drawers of neatly filed, labeled and chronologically sorted essentials. Poor Junior may never recover from his inaugural run; he rests in the corner, the overload light blinking forlornly, stray pieces of confetti littering the floor and two kitchen sized garbage bags of shredded documentation standing like sentinels on either side of him. One of the things I’ve learned from this particular project is paper shredders get quite hot when they feel they’re being overworked and will actually set things a-smolder when pushed past their limit. Note to self: Junior gets timely breaks next time. I now have two and a half empty drawers where before there was absolutely no way possible I was going to be able to jam one more piece of paper into the file cabinet. It may be a trick of the light, but the cabinet looks somehow friendlier, like a new companion, an ally, a beacon of hope to look to during what may be the dark and troubled times that lie ahead.
Charlie considers it his sworn duty to keep the general public informed of any and all developments, misdeeds and ongoing events that enter his awareness. He has been known to call 911 and let them know that his mom has bad heartburn from that evening’s pizza. He has taken it upon himself to inform the patrons at the grocery store that root beer makes his dad burp really, really loud. One of his more memorable news flashes came at a family gathering at my parents house. I believe it was a Thanksgiving when he let the assorted cousins, aunts, uncles and various family friends know that his mom told his dad that she’d never understand why Aunt Wendy ever married a jerk like Uncle Gary. Since then, we tend to watch what Charlie gets to overhear.
Now armed for the coming battle, my enthusiasm restored and a fresh approach to the whole process, I attack the tottering piles with renewed vigor. I am out of time if I'm going to call this month a success, both projects completed and my journey to total bliss remaining on track. Several hours later I am nursing several paper cuts and a deep, burning resentment for whoever decided that keeping records of any sort was a good idea. The precariously balanced piles of earlier in the day have been re-sorted from the “KEEP” and “THROW” piles (you may have noticed the “CONSULT WITH HUSBAND” pile has been skillfully taken out of the equation) to smaller piles of related subject matter. That’s it for the day, this really is going to take a while. I’m thinking the weapon of mass destruction is going to have to stay safely hidden for another day. Tomorrow, we inaugurate the paper shredder…I can’t wait.
My husband notices my improved mood over dinner but wisely doesn’t pursue it any further than, “You’re pretty chipper tonight”. I think he suspects something.
THE NEXT DAY
This is it, D-Day for every unnecessary piece of correspondence in the house. Even the children sense something as I’ve made cinnamon rolls on a weekday morning when it’s not anyone’s birthday and we don’t have houseguests. I think perhaps I scared them a little bit when I started humming “Battle Hymn Of The Republic” and giggling from time to time over my coffee. They got ready in record time and fifteen minutes before the school bus was due, headed out into the dark, frozen morning to wait at the corner. I peeked through the curtains and saw them talking seriously as they shot nervous glances back toward the house. After watching carefully to make sure they actually got on the bus, I closed the drapes, locked the doors and turned my attention to the stacks of nonsense that have been plaguing me for the better part of two weeks. Like a scene from one of those senseless action movies the men in my life adore, I suited up. Instead of rounds of ammunition crisscrossing my chest, I have rolls of self-sticking labels. I wield neither machine gun nor grenade launcher, choosing instead to brandish a stapler and paper clips. I have no hidden cache of C-4 to pull out at the last minute to save the day, I need nothing more than the shredder, which I’ve decided to simply call “Junior”, to finish off my enemies. Appropriately attired and armed, Junior and I stepped into battle knowing the enemy was formidable but with no idea of the combined power it faced.
Four hours later, I have reduced the overwhelming mass of sheer crap in the office to one and a half drawers of neatly filed, labeled and chronologically sorted essentials. Poor Junior may never recover from his inaugural run; he rests in the corner, the overload light blinking forlornly, stray pieces of confetti littering the floor and two kitchen sized garbage bags of shredded documentation standing like sentinels on either side of him. One of the things I’ve learned from this particular project is paper shredders get quite hot when they feel they’re being overworked and will actually set things a-smolder when pushed past their limit. Note to self: Junior gets timely breaks next time. I now have two and a half empty drawers where before there was absolutely no way possible I was going to be able to jam one more piece of paper into the file cabinet. It may be a trick of the light, but the cabinet looks somehow friendlier, like a new companion, an ally, a beacon of hope to look to during what may be the dark and troubled times that lie ahead.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Long Live The Resolution
Now that I've tackled the wallet, purse and keychain, I can't put off my organizational dream any longer. The wallet is well in hand, my purse is smaller and I now know the purpose of every single key on my keychain, having tossed all 6 of the mystery keys.
I think I’m going to start somewhat small, the large file cabinet in the office has been driving me a bit mad for some time and as I’m here at the computer, it’s kind of looming over me right now. It may not seem like a major project, but trust me on this one. With a deep, cleansing breath and a slight dash of fear, I open the first drawer. Or I attempt to, it seems terribly resistant to the impending purge. Oh dear…it’s with a sinking heart that I realize the file cabinet has been locked, likely by one of my well intentioned, button happy children. Examining the lock, the sinking feeling is intensified by the fact that I know exactly where the necessary key currently resides…the landfill. Okay, this is a minor setback, I can deal with this. Calling the local office supply store is no help at all, this kind of file cabinet hasn’t been made over twenty years and they don’t even know if the company is still in business. Fine, I’ll take care of it myself. Two hours later, cranky, sweaty and finally having wrestled the lock mechanism out of its natural resting place, the damn file cabinet is open and will never lock again. I have managed to use a hammer and screwdriver to punch the lock out and disable it, yippee. I think I need to remind myself why this whole thing is a good idea.
Breathe, deep cleansing breaths and remember the Zen bedroom. That is the goal. A spotless, organized and perfectly color coordinated house is going to make everyone’s lives better, happier and more productive. Okay, the goal again clear in my mind, it’s time…I will not be defeated by a project as small as a filing cabinet. Three hours pass and I’m sitting on the floor of the office surrounded by every official looking piece of paper we’ve been sent since the day we got married…twelve years ago. This has GOT to be my husband’s doing, I’m pack-ratty about sentimental stuff, he’s paranoid about someday needing the insurance policy on a car we haven’t owned for nine years. I’m really not even going to ponder the need for saving a printout of every stupid email forwarded to him since the inception of the internet. Or the pile of equally inane faxes of dirty jokes, lame cartoons and the like.
Three hours and I’ve only made it through the first drawer. This is going to take longer than I thought, time to abandon this one for the day.
LATER
Fine, I'm not going to put it off, I will not let the first project send me back into the dangerous land of procrastination, I have lived there far too long. Time for another deep cleansing breath and:
This project totally sucks. Just letting you know that this file cabinet could actually be a deal breaker on the whole organizational odyssey I’ve set myself. Finally got through all the drawers and had stuff sorted into piles…”KEEP”, “THROW” and “CONSULT WITH THE HUSBAND”. That third pile was my first major mistake, I might have been drinking a teensy bit tonight when I decided to let him anywhere near my precious piles. Suddenly, the “KEEP” pile is towering dangerously close to the top of my head, the “THROW” pile has magically shrunk to the instruction manual for a long dead VCR, three envelopes containing offers to refinance at ridiculously low rates, a phone book from 1979 and the owner's manual from a 1976 AMC Gremlin. How did this happen? I’ll tell you how, in a burst of wine-induced pride, I decided to show my beloved how much progress I’ve made and may have casually mentioned that one of the piles needed his attention. Silly, silly slightly tipsy me. Here’s today’s question: Do I go with my original plan and toss the lot or do I save the mountain of absolute crap he thinks we’re going to maybe possibly need after we’re dead?
I think I’m going to start somewhat small, the large file cabinet in the office has been driving me a bit mad for some time and as I’m here at the computer, it’s kind of looming over me right now. It may not seem like a major project, but trust me on this one. With a deep, cleansing breath and a slight dash of fear, I open the first drawer. Or I attempt to, it seems terribly resistant to the impending purge. Oh dear…it’s with a sinking heart that I realize the file cabinet has been locked, likely by one of my well intentioned, button happy children. Examining the lock, the sinking feeling is intensified by the fact that I know exactly where the necessary key currently resides…the landfill. Okay, this is a minor setback, I can deal with this. Calling the local office supply store is no help at all, this kind of file cabinet hasn’t been made over twenty years and they don’t even know if the company is still in business. Fine, I’ll take care of it myself. Two hours later, cranky, sweaty and finally having wrestled the lock mechanism out of its natural resting place, the damn file cabinet is open and will never lock again. I have managed to use a hammer and screwdriver to punch the lock out and disable it, yippee. I think I need to remind myself why this whole thing is a good idea.
Breathe, deep cleansing breaths and remember the Zen bedroom. That is the goal. A spotless, organized and perfectly color coordinated house is going to make everyone’s lives better, happier and more productive. Okay, the goal again clear in my mind, it’s time…I will not be defeated by a project as small as a filing cabinet. Three hours pass and I’m sitting on the floor of the office surrounded by every official looking piece of paper we’ve been sent since the day we got married…twelve years ago. This has GOT to be my husband’s doing, I’m pack-ratty about sentimental stuff, he’s paranoid about someday needing the insurance policy on a car we haven’t owned for nine years. I’m really not even going to ponder the need for saving a printout of every stupid email forwarded to him since the inception of the internet. Or the pile of equally inane faxes of dirty jokes, lame cartoons and the like.
Three hours and I’ve only made it through the first drawer. This is going to take longer than I thought, time to abandon this one for the day.
LATER
Fine, I'm not going to put it off, I will not let the first project send me back into the dangerous land of procrastination, I have lived there far too long. Time for another deep cleansing breath and:
This project totally sucks. Just letting you know that this file cabinet could actually be a deal breaker on the whole organizational odyssey I’ve set myself. Finally got through all the drawers and had stuff sorted into piles…”KEEP”, “THROW” and “CONSULT WITH THE HUSBAND”. That third pile was my first major mistake, I might have been drinking a teensy bit tonight when I decided to let him anywhere near my precious piles. Suddenly, the “KEEP” pile is towering dangerously close to the top of my head, the “THROW” pile has magically shrunk to the instruction manual for a long dead VCR, three envelopes containing offers to refinance at ridiculously low rates, a phone book from 1979 and the owner's manual from a 1976 AMC Gremlin. How did this happen? I’ll tell you how, in a burst of wine-induced pride, I decided to show my beloved how much progress I’ve made and may have casually mentioned that one of the piles needed his attention. Silly, silly slightly tipsy me. Here’s today’s question: Do I go with my original plan and toss the lot or do I save the mountain of absolute crap he thinks we’re going to maybe possibly need after we’re dead?
Friday, January 25, 2008
Travels In Vicodin Land
Been a heck of a week, my beloved did something horrible to his back and has been completely immobile for the better part of the past five days. He's feeling much better now, thanks to his new friend, Mr. Vicodin. I, however, am nearly to the point of murder. I don't know if this is one of those man/woman things, but when I'm sick or somehow laid up, I simply want to be left alone. All I really ask is that someone check from time to time and see that I'm still breathing and maybe the occasional piece of toast...otherwise, DO NOT ENTER my immediate area. My beloved, on the other hand, thinks the best place for him is on the couch in the living room...ground zero for all the noise and activity in the house. He parks himself there, perhaps he thinks we'll forget about him if we can't see his grumpy face at all times, and then gets pissed when the activity in the room wakes him up. Let's think for one quick second...the dark and quiet bedroom or the bustling, noisy living room, I know what I'D choose. You have to know a couple of things about my beloved, he hates getting sick, hates going to the doctor and has a touch of the hypochondriac in his soul. Every headache might be a brain tumor, every cough is a sign of pneumonia and a cut finger is probably going to gangrenous in a matter of hours.
This time was quite different, there was an ambulance and a hospital stay involved. I know the back is a tricky area but I think I must have been expecting something different from his two day stay in the hospital. They gave him Demerol, Valium and something else that I can't recall right now and he was not only still conscious, but still in terrible pain. First he headed off to X-Ray (they didn't see anything unusual) and eventually up to a room to meet the first of his new friends, Miss Morphine drip. He liked her, thought she was just swell. A day and a half later, no further tests or anything, the pain had subsided and they said he could come home with two more new friends, Mr. Vicodin and Mr. Valium. These are interesting new acquaintances for a guy that usually falls asleep after two Advil.
Bless him for trying to maintain the appearance of alertness and even the attempts at normal conversation were admirable, but futile. I think time and space became rather elastic for a while there, he had several failed attempts at remembering what day it was, but he DID know the year. A weird kind of cheer set in for the remainder of the first day home and I got the impression that the house could have collapsed around him and he would have been vaguely happy about it without ever knowing why. The kids were a little confused by their father's rather goofy happiness and the disjointed conversation that started and stopped with random abruptness and topic shifts that you'd need a map to follow. Poor guy, he really was trying so very hard to seem normal and had no earthly idea just how spectacularly he was failing.
Vicodin land seems like a happy place, check out Bill Engvall's story about Vicodin Land sometime, hilarious! We're on Friday now and I think the two Mr. Vs will be moving on soon, here's hoping anyway. I don't know that I could take much more of my beloved being home all day. He's taken to following me around the house asking me what I do all day (even though I do work part time), reading both newspapers and the computer screen over my shoulder and asking me every time I hang up the who it was I was talking to. This needs to stop now, it's time.
This time was quite different, there was an ambulance and a hospital stay involved. I know the back is a tricky area but I think I must have been expecting something different from his two day stay in the hospital. They gave him Demerol, Valium and something else that I can't recall right now and he was not only still conscious, but still in terrible pain. First he headed off to X-Ray (they didn't see anything unusual) and eventually up to a room to meet the first of his new friends, Miss Morphine drip. He liked her, thought she was just swell. A day and a half later, no further tests or anything, the pain had subsided and they said he could come home with two more new friends, Mr. Vicodin and Mr. Valium. These are interesting new acquaintances for a guy that usually falls asleep after two Advil.
Bless him for trying to maintain the appearance of alertness and even the attempts at normal conversation were admirable, but futile. I think time and space became rather elastic for a while there, he had several failed attempts at remembering what day it was, but he DID know the year. A weird kind of cheer set in for the remainder of the first day home and I got the impression that the house could have collapsed around him and he would have been vaguely happy about it without ever knowing why. The kids were a little confused by their father's rather goofy happiness and the disjointed conversation that started and stopped with random abruptness and topic shifts that you'd need a map to follow. Poor guy, he really was trying so very hard to seem normal and had no earthly idea just how spectacularly he was failing.
Vicodin land seems like a happy place, check out Bill Engvall's story about Vicodin Land sometime, hilarious! We're on Friday now and I think the two Mr. Vs will be moving on soon, here's hoping anyway. I don't know that I could take much more of my beloved being home all day. He's taken to following me around the house asking me what I do all day (even though I do work part time), reading both newspapers and the computer screen over my shoulder and asking me every time I hang up the who it was I was talking to. This needs to stop now, it's time.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Of Blizzards and Baked Goods
My key chain is a whole new problem. I have 17 keys hanging from a ring from which also dangles a large, sparkly “L”, a pewter Marvin the Martian head and a brass whistle. I know that two of the keys are for the front and back doors of my house, one for the garage, one for my parents house, one each for our two vehicles. That leaves me with 11 mystery keys. What do I do with them? I CAN’T throw them away, what if I encounter a lock and suddenly can’t open because I’ve gotten rid of the key?! This is going to take some serious thinking, I’m going to have to track down the locks these keys open. The truly organized never have this problem, do they? I expect they have all their keys labeled in some kind of code only they understand so in case they DO lose the key ring, bad guys can’t figure out what locks the keys open and therefore, all their possessions are always safe along with being well-organized. But enough about them, I STILL have 11 keys that are as mysterious as Stonehenge or those face things on Easter Island. I’m fairly certain one of them if for a bicycle lock. I don’t need that one anymore as the bike was stolen (yes, while locked) almost 15 years ago. The next one looks like a briefcase key…this is a real mystery as I have no recollection of owning a briefcase, that one can go. Several hours later, I have called all three of my sisters, stopped at the homes of my immediate neighbors and have established the identity of three more keys. Good for me! I’m left with 6 remaining mystery keys…I’m going to have to think about this one for a while longer. I know the moment I toss them, I’m going to need them…call it a key phobia, if you like.
What, then, should be this month’s major project? I’d better decide soon, we’re rapidly approaching the halfway point in the month. I cast my eye around the house, become overwhelmed and decide to watch “A League Of Their Own” on cable for the afternoon. The kids arrive home at 3:45 and it’s already getting dark. Another of the joys of living this far north, 17 minutes of sunlight per day from November to March. Watching the weather, it looks like a blizzard is heading our way. The children are thrilled at the prospect of the sixth snow day since Thanksgiving. I think the school just uses the snow day thing to make the parents appreciate school more so they just cancel periodically on spec. Usually by January, we’ve become immune to the weatherman’s flights of fancy and their tendency to make every meteorological burp a sign of a wintry Armageddon. But because we haven’t gotten a single MAJOR storm this winter, I sigh heavily and go check the pantry and the fridge for the necessities. An hour and a half and roughly two hundred and fifty dollars later, we’ve returned from the grocery store through the light snow flurries and the now complete darkness loaded with enough supplies to last at least two weeks:
Four gallons of milk (time to check into city ordinance for keeping a cow in the yard)
Three loaves of regular bread (for the coming onslaught of PB&Js)
Two loaves of cinnamon raisin bread (no plain toast for these boys)
Six cans of frozen orange juice (to stave of the chance of scurvy)
A carton of cigarettes (blizzards are NOT the time to quit smoking)
A five pound can of coffee (I mean really, would YOU risk it?)
Two large bottles of creamer (what’s the point of having coffee without it?)
A three pound jar of peanut butter (creamy…don’t even go there with the crunchy)
Dog food (although he CAN eat Cheerios in a pinch)
Cat food (no substitutions, she’s a puker)
Kitty litter (for use both in the cat box and on the sidewalks for traction)
Laundry soap (I can use this time constructively, right?)
Two boxes of microwave popcorn (we’re going to be watching a lot of movies)
Triscuts, Ritz and Club crackers (might as well…)
Cheese for above
Bags of frozen corn, peas and carrots (yeah…I needed SOMETHING healthy)
Three boxes of assorted cereal (got the milk, so…)
One Package each of Oreos, Chips Ahoy and Fig Newtons (REALLY, for the kids!)
Package of 12 triple roll toilet paper (don’t even joke about running out!)
Flour, eggs, butter, bananas and baking soda (I might bake, I DO know how)
Two bodice-ripper romance novels (PLEASE don’t tell anyone!)
Three coloring books (all the good pictures in the books at home are colored)
Box of crayons (nothing but the broken ones or nubs at home)
Six pounds of hamburger (it’s on SALE)
Two packages of hot dogs (for the kids…and the dog if it comes to that)
Buns for above
Three boxes of Pop-Tarts (it’s a blizzard…might as well have treats!)
A four pound can of cocoa mix (in case the coffee DOES run out)
Two bags of marshmallows (cocoa without them is simply WRONG)
Hershey bars and graham crackers (who says s’mores are only for camping?)
Three home improvement magazines (might have to redecorate during confinement)
Construction paper, glitter, glue, pipe cleaners, colored toothpicks (we might get crafty)
DAMMIT! Why won’t they simply sell food and toilet paper at the grocery store?! It’s a vast conspiracy, you know. After another forty minutes of rearranging the cupboards and stuffing the supplies away, we’re ready for anything…except dinner. To hell with it, I’m calling for pizza, the snow’s not bad yet and it may very well be the last face to face human contact with someone I’ve neither married nor given birth to for the foreseeable future. My husband has made it home from work, the cats, dog and both children are accounted for, the pizza’s on the way. Bring it on.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Beware
I know a lot of people that claim winter is their favorite time of year and when I hear friends and aquaintences make this statement, I simply assume they've missed a few doses of their medication.
Personally, I take the “I’m not leaving the house until the snow is gone and you can’t make me, no way no how” approach to winter. This, of course, takes a lot of skill to accomplish and only the truly dedicated can actually be successful at this particular lifestyle. I have never had total success, but have come damn close some years. Born of this lifestyle is the disarray that has become my house. Even though I try not to leave the house from mid-November to early April, I manage to acquire an alarming amount of crap. I have no idea how this happens, I don’t shop online and you have do some pretty heavy negotiating to get anyone to deliver anything during this time of the year. But somehow, a curious variety of stuff makes its way into every part of the house. And this is the year I’m going to wage war and reclaim the space for which we’re paying a 30-year mortgage.
Of course, spending that much time cooped up in the house does lead to some slightly delusional behavior…our downfall seems to be a tiny overestimation of our handyman skills. At least once every winter, either my husband or I decide we’re going to do something impressive to the house over the course of the winter months. One year, we deemed the time was ripe for us to make the opening in the wall between the living room and the front hall. The theory was solid, this was going to make the front hall less claustrophobic and allow the heat from the fireplace to do something other than pool in the living and dining rooms, raising the temperature of these two rooms to approximately 185 degrees Fahrenheit, shutting off the thermostat and plunging the rest of the house into a climate similar to that of the Arctic Circle. We got as far as making the first cuts to the plaster and when the alarmingly large cracks began to form in the rest of the wall, we called Dan’s cousin Regis, the contractor, to finish the job.
The following year, Dan though it might be a good idea to get rid of the dropped ceiling in the living and dining rooms that we both passionately hate. My antipathy for the horrible acoustical tiles was tinged with both fear of the unknown and a healthy dose of curiosity as to what exactly was underneath them. Our house was built in 1890 and the hope was that the original crown moldings were underneath the 1960s textured nightmare.
During one blizzard that kept us housebound for three days, Dan became a man possessed…or obsessed. I’d catch him sitting in the recliner, fully prone, staring at the ceiling and muttering wildly under his breath. I swear I heard him say “All work and no play makes Dan a dull boy.“ at least once. Just as I started channeling Shelly Duvall in ‘The Shining’, my beloved sprang into action. With the energy born of a new mission, he had the living room nearly cleared in just over an hour, entrances sealed off with large sheets of plastic, the larger pieces of furniture covered with drop cloths, the ladder and pry bar in position and the children huddled in the office, convinced Daddy had gone completely mad. Two days later, the tiles were stuffed into the biggest garbage bags commercially available, waiting in the garage for the annual citywide spring clean up, the majority of the dust had been removed and the original ceiling was exposed to all. Oh dear. The crown moldings were indeed there, so was a plaster ceiling that was cracked, pitted and had several disturbingly large chunks missing. Time to call Regis again…he loves us, we keep him from getting bored all winter. I expect to get front row tickets when his children graduate from medical school, we do like to see the payoff to our investments. I’m hoping my simple organizational project will keep us occupied for the remainder of this winter so nothing like that ever happens again, right? Right??
Personally, I take the “I’m not leaving the house until the snow is gone and you can’t make me, no way no how” approach to winter. This, of course, takes a lot of skill to accomplish and only the truly dedicated can actually be successful at this particular lifestyle. I have never had total success, but have come damn close some years. Born of this lifestyle is the disarray that has become my house. Even though I try not to leave the house from mid-November to early April, I manage to acquire an alarming amount of crap. I have no idea how this happens, I don’t shop online and you have do some pretty heavy negotiating to get anyone to deliver anything during this time of the year. But somehow, a curious variety of stuff makes its way into every part of the house. And this is the year I’m going to wage war and reclaim the space for which we’re paying a 30-year mortgage.
Of course, spending that much time cooped up in the house does lead to some slightly delusional behavior…our downfall seems to be a tiny overestimation of our handyman skills. At least once every winter, either my husband or I decide we’re going to do something impressive to the house over the course of the winter months. One year, we deemed the time was ripe for us to make the opening in the wall between the living room and the front hall. The theory was solid, this was going to make the front hall less claustrophobic and allow the heat from the fireplace to do something other than pool in the living and dining rooms, raising the temperature of these two rooms to approximately 185 degrees Fahrenheit, shutting off the thermostat and plunging the rest of the house into a climate similar to that of the Arctic Circle. We got as far as making the first cuts to the plaster and when the alarmingly large cracks began to form in the rest of the wall, we called Dan’s cousin Regis, the contractor, to finish the job.
The following year, Dan though it might be a good idea to get rid of the dropped ceiling in the living and dining rooms that we both passionately hate. My antipathy for the horrible acoustical tiles was tinged with both fear of the unknown and a healthy dose of curiosity as to what exactly was underneath them. Our house was built in 1890 and the hope was that the original crown moldings were underneath the 1960s textured nightmare.
During one blizzard that kept us housebound for three days, Dan became a man possessed…or obsessed. I’d catch him sitting in the recliner, fully prone, staring at the ceiling and muttering wildly under his breath. I swear I heard him say “All work and no play makes Dan a dull boy.“ at least once. Just as I started channeling Shelly Duvall in ‘The Shining’, my beloved sprang into action. With the energy born of a new mission, he had the living room nearly cleared in just over an hour, entrances sealed off with large sheets of plastic, the larger pieces of furniture covered with drop cloths, the ladder and pry bar in position and the children huddled in the office, convinced Daddy had gone completely mad. Two days later, the tiles were stuffed into the biggest garbage bags commercially available, waiting in the garage for the annual citywide spring clean up, the majority of the dust had been removed and the original ceiling was exposed to all. Oh dear. The crown moldings were indeed there, so was a plaster ceiling that was cracked, pitted and had several disturbingly large chunks missing. Time to call Regis again…he loves us, we keep him from getting bored all winter. I expect to get front row tickets when his children graduate from medical school, we do like to see the payoff to our investments. I’m hoping my simple organizational project will keep us occupied for the remainder of this winter so nothing like that ever happens again, right? Right??
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Back To School -- Redux
The children went back to school today, thank God! I adore them both, more so separately than together these days. My children are 13 and 8, so we’re talking eighth and third grade, respectively. I think I may have blocked out the amount of fighting my sisters and I did as children, or else my own two bundles of joy are simply destined to NEVER be in the same room for more than thirty seconds at a time. Maybe it’s a boy thing, growing up with three sisters and no brothers I think I may have missed some stuff. I have come to realize that the male of our particular species is a group I will never truly understand. For a long time, I thought I knew a whole lot about a whole lot. Now that I have children, one now a teenager, I realize I don't know sh** about sh**. I do now understand why the eye roll that I perfected as a teen drove my mother completely mad, my eldest son is well on his way to the perfect derisive eye roll and uses it with the exactness of an exceptionally skilled surgeon. My younger son still believes that manufactured tears and outrage expressed at the highest decibel level ever achieved by humankind is the way to best get his point across...that needs to end soon.
I have also discovered, over the course of this vacation, that there is some kind of weird psychic connection between my children and the pixilated creatures in their videogames. I know this because every time their defender of the universe or football player sustains an injury in the game, my children seem to feel the pain the little computer generated person experiences. The days since Christmas (when they got the game console…damn you Santa!), have been punctuated shouts of “Ouch!” and the periodic “Aaaargh!” emanating from the office. Before you think it, I did try to find games that required them to work together as a team...they're simply not interested. The base appeal of annihilating your brother in any form seems to have outweighed the idea of teamwork and peaceful co-existence. It was a worth a shot anyway. Most of the games they play together have deteriorated into someone being completely outraged by the gruesome death of their on screen character at the hands of their brother.
Sisters fight about real things like illegally borrowed clothing, wrecked lipstick and the identity of the villain who keeps cutting the hair off all the Barbie dolls. Brothers seem to fight over things like looking at each other weird, farting at one another on purpose (as a girl, I didn’t even know that deliberate and timely flatulence was possible) and being first…at anything. Maybe we’ll add perfectly behaved children to the list of goals for the year. Don't laugh, I can do this!
I have also discovered, over the course of this vacation, that there is some kind of weird psychic connection between my children and the pixilated creatures in their videogames. I know this because every time their defender of the universe or football player sustains an injury in the game, my children seem to feel the pain the little computer generated person experiences. The days since Christmas (when they got the game console…damn you Santa!), have been punctuated shouts of “Ouch!” and the periodic “Aaaargh!” emanating from the office. Before you think it, I did try to find games that required them to work together as a team...they're simply not interested. The base appeal of annihilating your brother in any form seems to have outweighed the idea of teamwork and peaceful co-existence. It was a worth a shot anyway. Most of the games they play together have deteriorated into someone being completely outraged by the gruesome death of their on screen character at the hands of their brother.
Sisters fight about real things like illegally borrowed clothing, wrecked lipstick and the identity of the villain who keeps cutting the hair off all the Barbie dolls. Brothers seem to fight over things like looking at each other weird, farting at one another on purpose (as a girl, I didn’t even know that deliberate and timely flatulence was possible) and being first…at anything. Maybe we’ll add perfectly behaved children to the list of goals for the year. Don't laugh, I can do this!
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Onward to the New Year
I would dearly love to know who keeps leaving Legos in my bed. The rest of the house is asleep and I’ve finally made my way to bed with nothing more on my mind than sleeping blissfully through eight whole hours (yeah, right), I straighten out the blankets before cuddling underneath them, I hear the distinctive clacking of two Legos bumping into each other somewhere in the nether regions of the bed. After a thorough search, which usually involves waking my husband (who doesn’t seem bothered by the presence of hard, sharp-cornered pieces of plastic) stripping the bed down to the mattress pad, I locate the renegade pieces of plastic and drop them into a box next to the bed that seems to have appeared there for just this purpose. Once upon a time, my bedroom was going to be a serene sanctuary from the hustle, bustle, noise and general chaos that is daily life. Somehow, it has evolved into a combination of clothing storage area, TV room and repository for stuff I can’t throw away but never actually use. How did this happen? It’s a fairly simple explanation: I have two children, a husband, a deranged German Shepherd and two schizophrenic felines living in my house. I adore each of the creatures that live with me, but the noise level and the general feeling of imminent disaster seems to grow with each passing year.
I generally don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I never fulfill the commitment I make in a burst of hangover-induced morality and its just one more thing to beat myself up about over the course of a year. Okay, more like for a few hours after the actual instance of resolution-breaking, but who needs any kind of regret at all, really. But this is it! This is the year I’m going to become totally organized and I commit, right here on this page, to get every aspect of my life in order. The time of chaos ruling my life is over. I am going to declutter my house, get my finances into shape, lose every extra pound I’ve gained since I was 14, stop smoking, cook only healthy organic meals for my family and have fantastic sex. I figure once I bring these aspects of my life under control, I will become the serene, well-rounded and supremely happy person I’ve always longed to be. I used to be somewhat (okay I was going to say highly, but someone in my family might read this and they would mock me) organized and fairly tidy. Somewhere along the line, I traded mild organization for hair-pulling disarray and a certain degree of neatness for “it’s clean underneath the clutter”. Of course it might be because there’s so much clutter, dirt can’t possibly penetrate that many layers to actually make the surface underneath dirty. I know people who have more than two children, full-time jobs, husbands and a larger variety of animals living with them and still manage a spotless house. I don’t like them. I don’t even WANT to know how they do it, I have enough feelings of inadequacy, thank you very much.
I found the perfect bedroom in one of those “Beautiful Homes That Regular People Like You Can’t Possibly Achieve On Your Budget” magazines. It’s a peaceful, soothing Zen-like room with a bamboo fountain and meditation space. That’s the goal, this will be my room before the end of the year. I have framed the picture in one of the many document frames I have lying around the house. I really have no idea what I was thinking in buying a dozen document frames but they were SUCH a good deal. I figure if I have the picture there to inspire me, I will be spurred into action. Step one is complete, the goal is set and I am ready to conquer my chaos. Isn’t that what we all want, to rid our lives of chaos and live out our days in serenity?
I’ve come to live with the recurring nightmare that one day, I’m going to open the front door and the entire contents of my house are going to avalanche on top of me like the hall closet in the old “Fibber McGee and Molly” radio show. No more! That particular nightmare will be purged along with every single unnecessary item in the house.
I generally don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I never fulfill the commitment I make in a burst of hangover-induced morality and its just one more thing to beat myself up about over the course of a year. Okay, more like for a few hours after the actual instance of resolution-breaking, but who needs any kind of regret at all, really. But this is it! This is the year I’m going to become totally organized and I commit, right here on this page, to get every aspect of my life in order. The time of chaos ruling my life is over. I am going to declutter my house, get my finances into shape, lose every extra pound I’ve gained since I was 14, stop smoking, cook only healthy organic meals for my family and have fantastic sex. I figure once I bring these aspects of my life under control, I will become the serene, well-rounded and supremely happy person I’ve always longed to be. I used to be somewhat (okay I was going to say highly, but someone in my family might read this and they would mock me) organized and fairly tidy. Somewhere along the line, I traded mild organization for hair-pulling disarray and a certain degree of neatness for “it’s clean underneath the clutter”. Of course it might be because there’s so much clutter, dirt can’t possibly penetrate that many layers to actually make the surface underneath dirty. I know people who have more than two children, full-time jobs, husbands and a larger variety of animals living with them and still manage a spotless house. I don’t like them. I don’t even WANT to know how they do it, I have enough feelings of inadequacy, thank you very much.
I found the perfect bedroom in one of those “Beautiful Homes That Regular People Like You Can’t Possibly Achieve On Your Budget” magazines. It’s a peaceful, soothing Zen-like room with a bamboo fountain and meditation space. That’s the goal, this will be my room before the end of the year. I have framed the picture in one of the many document frames I have lying around the house. I really have no idea what I was thinking in buying a dozen document frames but they were SUCH a good deal. I figure if I have the picture there to inspire me, I will be spurred into action. Step one is complete, the goal is set and I am ready to conquer my chaos. Isn’t that what we all want, to rid our lives of chaos and live out our days in serenity?
I’ve come to live with the recurring nightmare that one day, I’m going to open the front door and the entire contents of my house are going to avalanche on top of me like the hall closet in the old “Fibber McGee and Molly” radio show. No more! That particular nightmare will be purged along with every single unnecessary item in the house.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Home For The Holiday
Here it comes, looming just around the corner, that biggest of holidays, holiest of days,the end all be all of the year...Christmas. I live about 300 miles from the city of my birth, all the rest of my family still lives there, so my little group is the designated traveling party for each and every major holiday. Once upon a time, in the early days of our marriage (we'll call that time B.C./before children) traveling for the holidays was simple: one suitcase, one bag for toiletries and the like, a book or a couple of magazines, a full tank of gas and a half a pack of cigarettes and we were on the way. We'd stop once for food and a potty break and made the trip in about five hours. I think in the ensuing years, the distance between here and my hometown has somehow expanded, because we're in a celebratory mood if we make the trip in under six hours these days.
The time spent in the car isn't the only thing that's changed, the pre-trip ceremony has become as elaborate as Easter mass at the Vatican or one of those "Bridezilla" weddings. Gone are the days of packing just before we leave, now it takes the preceding three days. First we have to make sure the necessary clothes are washed, that they actually fit the intended wearer and that they don't disappear between the laundry and the suitcase (it happens...Gremlins, I think). Next, you have to make sure your offspring don't have a spare moment to entertain even the passing thought of boredom. Here's what usually ends up going into the car JUST FOR THE TRIP:
10-20 Matchbox-type cars, trucks, etc
12-15 Action figures (none with projectiles, I'm crazy, not stupid)
3-4 Handheld games (and the required gross of extra batteries)
6-10 Coloring/Activity Books
3-4 Pads of Paper
1000 + crayons, markers, pens, pencils, quills and ink, hammer and chisel and the like
The entire contents of every bookcase in the house
Every pillow and blanket throw we own
Personal CD players (and an additional gross of batteries)
25+ CDs
1 box each of graham crackers sticks, cheese Nips, raisins, anything crunchy that will embed itself into the seats
Minimum of a dozen each of juice bottles, water bottles and assorted beverage
---and a bag for odds and ends (yeah, these aren't the odds and ends)
And the final stage of pre-trip hoo-ha involves my beloved's penchant of planning for every possible disaster. We have the usual stuff, the spare tire, jack, tire iron, jumper cables and extra anti freeze. But my darling does not see this as NEARLY prepared enough. Into the back of the van goes the portable air tank, gas can, two first aid kits, dehydrated fruits sealed in foil, kerosene, toilet paper (I am not kidding), candles, waterproof matches, an extra car battery, two sleeping bags, every hat, glove, scarf and mitten in the house and a partridge in a pear tree. On top of these essentials we stack the three suitcases, the two toiletries bags, the bag of shoes and our dress coats. Perched delicately on top of those are the boxes and bags of gifts we're giving for Christmas. And finally, last but certainly not least is the cooler full of venison my husband insists we bring down every year. I don't have the heart to tell him that no one in my family eats it, they just don't want to make him feel bad.
At last, we're ready to head off into the wild blue yonder, after making one return trip to the house to retrieve the couple of things we've forgotten to load into the van, the children. I mean really, how am I supposed to remember EVERYTHING? The boys are now safely strapped into their seats with all their worldly possessions surrounding them and we're rolling.
Honestly, we could survive a nuclear winter with the supplies we lay in for a 300 mile car trip.
One may wonder why it takes us more than six hours to travel a mere three hundred miles. We have one factor that most do not, my youngest son. Every car trip turns into another leg on what we've dubbed "The Upper Midwest Bathroom Tour". Within twenty miles of home comes the first plantive call from the backseat "I have to go to the bathroom." When dealing with those under the age of ten, you have NO cushion, you cannot ask them to hold on for a few more miles. The request to stop is made well after the "hold it" window has firmly closed. At this point, you've got a ticking tinkle bomb less than three feet away from you and time is running out. Thus, the bathroom tour was born. I've long entertained the idea of sending him into these oaises with a camera, then he can post his reviews with accompanying photos on his own blog. We'll rate them by cleanliness, spaciousness, number of stalls, supplies and seat temperature. I think it could be quite a sensation.
Okay, I have to start packing now, we leave in four days...
The time spent in the car isn't the only thing that's changed, the pre-trip ceremony has become as elaborate as Easter mass at the Vatican or one of those "Bridezilla" weddings. Gone are the days of packing just before we leave, now it takes the preceding three days. First we have to make sure the necessary clothes are washed, that they actually fit the intended wearer and that they don't disappear between the laundry and the suitcase (it happens...Gremlins, I think). Next, you have to make sure your offspring don't have a spare moment to entertain even the passing thought of boredom. Here's what usually ends up going into the car JUST FOR THE TRIP:
10-20 Matchbox-type cars, trucks, etc
12-15 Action figures (none with projectiles, I'm crazy, not stupid)
3-4 Handheld games (and the required gross of extra batteries)
6-10 Coloring/Activity Books
3-4 Pads of Paper
1000 + crayons, markers, pens, pencils, quills and ink, hammer and chisel and the like
The entire contents of every bookcase in the house
Every pillow and blanket throw we own
Personal CD players (and an additional gross of batteries)
25+ CDs
1 box each of graham crackers sticks, cheese Nips, raisins, anything crunchy that will embed itself into the seats
Minimum of a dozen each of juice bottles, water bottles and assorted beverage
---and a bag for odds and ends (yeah, these aren't the odds and ends)
And the final stage of pre-trip hoo-ha involves my beloved's penchant of planning for every possible disaster. We have the usual stuff, the spare tire, jack, tire iron, jumper cables and extra anti freeze. But my darling does not see this as NEARLY prepared enough. Into the back of the van goes the portable air tank, gas can, two first aid kits, dehydrated fruits sealed in foil, kerosene, toilet paper (I am not kidding), candles, waterproof matches, an extra car battery, two sleeping bags, every hat, glove, scarf and mitten in the house and a partridge in a pear tree. On top of these essentials we stack the three suitcases, the two toiletries bags, the bag of shoes and our dress coats. Perched delicately on top of those are the boxes and bags of gifts we're giving for Christmas. And finally, last but certainly not least is the cooler full of venison my husband insists we bring down every year. I don't have the heart to tell him that no one in my family eats it, they just don't want to make him feel bad.
At last, we're ready to head off into the wild blue yonder, after making one return trip to the house to retrieve the couple of things we've forgotten to load into the van, the children. I mean really, how am I supposed to remember EVERYTHING? The boys are now safely strapped into their seats with all their worldly possessions surrounding them and we're rolling.
Honestly, we could survive a nuclear winter with the supplies we lay in for a 300 mile car trip.
One may wonder why it takes us more than six hours to travel a mere three hundred miles. We have one factor that most do not, my youngest son. Every car trip turns into another leg on what we've dubbed "The Upper Midwest Bathroom Tour". Within twenty miles of home comes the first plantive call from the backseat "I have to go to the bathroom." When dealing with those under the age of ten, you have NO cushion, you cannot ask them to hold on for a few more miles. The request to stop is made well after the "hold it" window has firmly closed. At this point, you've got a ticking tinkle bomb less than three feet away from you and time is running out. Thus, the bathroom tour was born. I've long entertained the idea of sending him into these oaises with a camera, then he can post his reviews with accompanying photos on his own blog. We'll rate them by cleanliness, spaciousness, number of stalls, supplies and seat temperature. I think it could be quite a sensation.
Okay, I have to start packing now, we leave in four days...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
It CAN Happen To You
Well, here it is, my very own Clark Griswold Christmas moment has happened. Every year, my beloved thinks we should venture out into the woods and cut down our own Christmas tree. This is the year that I caved, call it a moment of weakness, but we packed up the minivan to head off into the wilderness in search of the perfect tree. In December, in northern Minnesota...in DECEMBER. Did I mention that this time of year in this neck of the woods it's complete madness to spend any more time outside than it takes your brain to register the ungodly temperature? Yeah, okay, so let's go out into the woods and look for a tree. Because I still love the man I married all those many years ago, we packed in the manner of an army division out on maneuvers and began our quest. Five minutes in, my beloved realized we had forgotten one very important item, after double checking the winter survival kit, the box of extra socks, hats, gloves and thermal undies, the bag of snacks and beverages and the backpack full of diversions for the kids, he established that we had not included a means of cutting down our victim...er, tree. This was indeed a necessary item that dictated a return to the homestead. After only one false start, a record of sorts for us, we made our way to the local wildlife refuge, paid the ten bucks for the privilege and wandered off into the frozen wild in search of the Holy Grail of trees. We would know it when we saw it, it would be bathed in a golden light from above, a chorus of angels would see and the surrounding landscape would drift out of focus,easy enough, right? Sure...it's that easy, really. Following an hour of tripping over fallen trees (the rejects from previous Christmases, I expect), stumbling into gopher holes and a particularly harrowing encounter with a rather nasty wild turkey, the Grail seemed hopelessly lost to us. Perhaps we had not been deemed worthy to receive such a prize. With the temperature in the single digits and the wind chill hovering somewhere near -20 F, we decided that close was going to have to be good enough. We turned to see a pretty good looking tree, nice and full, straight-ish trunk that was roughly six inches across, non long-needled...works for me. Commence the second ritual, the cutting of the tree. With visions of every cartoon character that has ever attempted to cut down a tree dancing in my head, our prey soon lay at our feet. The next step was to drag the tree back through the woods, back over its fallen bretheren, avoid both the gopher holes and the wild turkey (which apparently had called for backup) and get it onto the top of my minivan. This is the point that I realized my van doesn't have a luggage rack, darn. After several different configurations of both rope and tree, we're now secure and ready for the trip home...with both windows open a bit to accomodate the rope that would keep the tree from launching off the top of my van as we hurtle toward the warmth and comfort of home.
PHASE TWO:
This is when things REALLY got interesting, once we got home. I'll admit my culpability right here and now, I have no eye for distance and I'm the one who forgot the tape measure. My beloved did point out that the tree seemed pretty big once we got it on top of the van and we had trunk visible as we looked through the windshield as well as several feet obscuring the back window. But honestly, it's not THAT big and we have fairly high ceilings in the house, it'll be FINE. Okay, so we have ten foot ceilings...and a seventeen foot tree. This may be harder than we think. There's the tree, taking up quite a bit of space on the boulevard; there's the front door, looking rather narrower than I remember it; and there's my living room, looking much smaller that it ever has. My youngest son suggested we keep it on its side, remove the couch from the living room and decorate it sideways. My elder son suggested trying to bend the top to fit into the room. My beloved simply gave me the hairy eyeball and shook his head. Okay FINE, this one's on me. After severing the tree roughly in half, checking AGAIN for confused wildlife, the tree now stands (I was going to say proudly, but that's not quite accurate) in the corner of the room, tinseled and popcorned, dazzling all who lay eyes upon it. Clark Griswold would get misty, I'm sure of it.
Maybe it's time to consider a fake tree,blasphemy, I know...but a whole lot easier and no wild turkeys to contend with.
PHASE TWO:
This is when things REALLY got interesting, once we got home. I'll admit my culpability right here and now, I have no eye for distance and I'm the one who forgot the tape measure. My beloved did point out that the tree seemed pretty big once we got it on top of the van and we had trunk visible as we looked through the windshield as well as several feet obscuring the back window. But honestly, it's not THAT big and we have fairly high ceilings in the house, it'll be FINE. Okay, so we have ten foot ceilings...and a seventeen foot tree. This may be harder than we think. There's the tree, taking up quite a bit of space on the boulevard; there's the front door, looking rather narrower than I remember it; and there's my living room, looking much smaller that it ever has. My youngest son suggested we keep it on its side, remove the couch from the living room and decorate it sideways. My elder son suggested trying to bend the top to fit into the room. My beloved simply gave me the hairy eyeball and shook his head. Okay FINE, this one's on me. After severing the tree roughly in half, checking AGAIN for confused wildlife, the tree now stands (I was going to say proudly, but that's not quite accurate) in the corner of the room, tinseled and popcorned, dazzling all who lay eyes upon it. Clark Griswold would get misty, I'm sure of it.
Maybe it's time to consider a fake tree,blasphemy, I know...but a whole lot easier and no wild turkeys to contend with.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Welcome To Winter
Ah yes, winter has descended upon these northern climes and, as usual, I find myself completely unprepared for the next six months. I don't know WHY winter comes as a surprise every single year; do I think this is the year it's not going to happen? What about all this global warming stuff? I can say for sure it's not warming in my particular neck of the woods. We had a "warm" (yes, this is what the weatherman said) with highs in the middle 40s...Monday, a mini blizzard and a high temperature of about 15F. Is that the way we're going to play it? FINE! I have all the stuff, the heavy jackets (good for adding the appearance of those 20 extra pounds you've been looking for), the snowpants (just in case your thighs were looking too small), the extra traction boots (who doesn't want to walk like bigfoot?), the nice warm hats and gloves (so your hair stays perfect and picking up a quarter is easily accomplished) they're all ready to go. It's ME that's not ready for this. I find myself mentally unprepared for the howling arctic wind (stupid Alberta clippers), the multiple feet of snow piling up as far as the eye can see and the prospect of not seeing my neighbors but for brief glimpses of heavily bundled figures trudging behind shovels and snowblowers.
I have a wonderful neighbor who REALLY likes his snowblower and every time it snows, he's out there doing the public sidewalk for the ENTIRE block. I love that guy and have made it a point to give him a really big plate of baked goods and a bottle of wine every single year. There are the insane people around here who LOOOOOOOOVE winter and all that comes with it.
Winter in Minnesota is a time for madness and it manifests itself in many ways. We have the hockey freaks, the snowmobile junkies and those who spend hours, even days at a time sitting in a tiny, thrown-together-in-a-weekend shack on a frozen lake staring into a hole cut in eight inches of ice in the hopes that a really stupid fish might emerge from the slightly warmer depths to nibble on the chunk of frozen whatever they’ve baited on a hook. My husband is one of the latter. This activity can go on for hours at a time, one would think this time would be spent in meaningful conversation with your fishing buddy, but this is rarely the case. Perhaps it’s a time for quiet contemplation, of re-examining their lives and finding their spiritual center, but no. The time is generally spent drinking beer and discussing the fish they’re going to catch or reliving glorious conquests of past semi-conscious fish they’ve wrangled. Dan loves this activity and now that, after more than ten years of marriage, he’s stopped trying to get me to go with him, he seizes every possible opportunity to pursue the unequaled joys of ice fishing.
You’d think an activity that sounds so simple would be simple, this just goes to show how terribly, terribly wrong we are. How bad can it be? All you need is a fishing rod, a hook, some bait and some sort of hypothermia avoidance plan, right? Oh how silly and naïve. You don’t need JUST a fishing rod, it must be a specially-designed-for-ICE-fishing-rod. These rods have names like: Arctic Air, Polar Poles or The Iceman. They come in configurations that boggle the mind, panfish, game fish, and my personal favorite: stillfish…might that not mean it’s already dead? The bait is another can of worms (like that?) altogether. First of all, it’s really difficult to dig in the garden for night crawlers when it’s 30 degrees below zero outside. Second, you can’t use something so boring as simple worms for heaven’s sake! No, these stupid, partially frozen fish prefer a diet of more exotic fare that you won’t be digging out of your garden, frozen solid or not. The culinary standards of these fish include such delicacies as waxworms, mealworms, crickets and minnows; all readily available in January…for a price. Then you toss in the absolute necessities: the ice auger, the ice chaps (seriously, they‘re exactly what you‘re thinking), rod holders, ice cleats for the boots, GPS units and sonar, just to get started. You’d think men who are advanced enough to operate all this high-tech, cutting edge equipment would know when it was or wasn’t a good idea to drive their half-ton pickups onto a partially frozen lake, but no. Every ice fishing season there’s at least one story about a couple of guys whose SUV has fallen through the ice and ended up in the watery depths of Lake of The Woods. “Hmm, seemed solid enough when we were walking on it, Bob.” Back to the gear, all of the items listed above and more have found their way into my house. I had high hopes at the beginning of this process, Dan announced that this was his fishing stuff, no one was to mess with it upon pain of a long and torturous death. Everything was in its pristine original packaging and lined up precisely on hooks and shelves in the basement. This impressive display of jealousy-inducing organization lasted approximately two weeks. After the first big ice fishing trip, he staggered home after a long beer infused weekend, piled everything into the back entry and fell into bed. Three days later, having tripped innumerable times over the detritus of his trip and ending up with a fish-hook embedded in my ankle, I gathered the ripening mass of now thawed clothing, tangled line and one suspiciously leaking Styrofoam cooler and shoved it all into the garage. What, you may ask, happened the next time my beloved wanted to go ice fishing? There was an hour tirade about respecting other people’s belongings and a rant about violations visited upon the sanctity of "The Iceman." The best part about all of this is that my beloved doesn't eat fish, he hates it. I still have carefully cleaned, filleted and painstakingly wrapped packages of fish marked "January 2000"...okay, it might be time to clean out the freezer.
Winter Wonderland', my butt, 'Let It Snow', yeah sure thing there, pal. I have to wonder if the people who wrote those songs ever set foot in Minnesota in January...if they had, I bet the songs would sound quite different.
Maybe something like this....
Snowblowers drone, are you listening?
In the lane, wind is blistering
A horrible sight, we're in for the night.
Living through a WINTRY APOCALYPSE.
Or perhaps...
Oh the weather outside is frightful....well, that's pretty much it, end of song.
Perhaps not as catchy as the originals, but a whole lot more honest, don't you think?
I have a wonderful neighbor who REALLY likes his snowblower and every time it snows, he's out there doing the public sidewalk for the ENTIRE block. I love that guy and have made it a point to give him a really big plate of baked goods and a bottle of wine every single year. There are the insane people around here who LOOOOOOOOVE winter and all that comes with it.
Winter in Minnesota is a time for madness and it manifests itself in many ways. We have the hockey freaks, the snowmobile junkies and those who spend hours, even days at a time sitting in a tiny, thrown-together-in-a-weekend shack on a frozen lake staring into a hole cut in eight inches of ice in the hopes that a really stupid fish might emerge from the slightly warmer depths to nibble on the chunk of frozen whatever they’ve baited on a hook. My husband is one of the latter. This activity can go on for hours at a time, one would think this time would be spent in meaningful conversation with your fishing buddy, but this is rarely the case. Perhaps it’s a time for quiet contemplation, of re-examining their lives and finding their spiritual center, but no. The time is generally spent drinking beer and discussing the fish they’re going to catch or reliving glorious conquests of past semi-conscious fish they’ve wrangled. Dan loves this activity and now that, after more than ten years of marriage, he’s stopped trying to get me to go with him, he seizes every possible opportunity to pursue the unequaled joys of ice fishing.
You’d think an activity that sounds so simple would be simple, this just goes to show how terribly, terribly wrong we are. How bad can it be? All you need is a fishing rod, a hook, some bait and some sort of hypothermia avoidance plan, right? Oh how silly and naïve. You don’t need JUST a fishing rod, it must be a specially-designed-for-ICE-fishing-rod. These rods have names like: Arctic Air, Polar Poles or The Iceman. They come in configurations that boggle the mind, panfish, game fish, and my personal favorite: stillfish…might that not mean it’s already dead? The bait is another can of worms (like that?) altogether. First of all, it’s really difficult to dig in the garden for night crawlers when it’s 30 degrees below zero outside. Second, you can’t use something so boring as simple worms for heaven’s sake! No, these stupid, partially frozen fish prefer a diet of more exotic fare that you won’t be digging out of your garden, frozen solid or not. The culinary standards of these fish include such delicacies as waxworms, mealworms, crickets and minnows; all readily available in January…for a price. Then you toss in the absolute necessities: the ice auger, the ice chaps (seriously, they‘re exactly what you‘re thinking), rod holders, ice cleats for the boots, GPS units and sonar, just to get started. You’d think men who are advanced enough to operate all this high-tech, cutting edge equipment would know when it was or wasn’t a good idea to drive their half-ton pickups onto a partially frozen lake, but no. Every ice fishing season there’s at least one story about a couple of guys whose SUV has fallen through the ice and ended up in the watery depths of Lake of The Woods. “Hmm, seemed solid enough when we were walking on it, Bob.” Back to the gear, all of the items listed above and more have found their way into my house. I had high hopes at the beginning of this process, Dan announced that this was his fishing stuff, no one was to mess with it upon pain of a long and torturous death. Everything was in its pristine original packaging and lined up precisely on hooks and shelves in the basement. This impressive display of jealousy-inducing organization lasted approximately two weeks. After the first big ice fishing trip, he staggered home after a long beer infused weekend, piled everything into the back entry and fell into bed. Three days later, having tripped innumerable times over the detritus of his trip and ending up with a fish-hook embedded in my ankle, I gathered the ripening mass of now thawed clothing, tangled line and one suspiciously leaking Styrofoam cooler and shoved it all into the garage. What, you may ask, happened the next time my beloved wanted to go ice fishing? There was an hour tirade about respecting other people’s belongings and a rant about violations visited upon the sanctity of "The Iceman." The best part about all of this is that my beloved doesn't eat fish, he hates it. I still have carefully cleaned, filleted and painstakingly wrapped packages of fish marked "January 2000"...okay, it might be time to clean out the freezer.
Winter Wonderland', my butt, 'Let It Snow', yeah sure thing there, pal. I have to wonder if the people who wrote those songs ever set foot in Minnesota in January...if they had, I bet the songs would sound quite different.
Maybe something like this....
Snowblowers drone, are you listening?
In the lane, wind is blistering
A horrible sight, we're in for the night.
Living through a WINTRY APOCALYPSE.
Or perhaps...
Oh the weather outside is frightful....well, that's pretty much it, end of song.
Perhaps not as catchy as the originals, but a whole lot more honest, don't you think?
Saturday, October 13, 2007
In An Emergency...Room
Life with boys consists of three distinct measurements of time, pre-emergency, mid-emergency and post-emergency, at least that's how it is in my house. The latest disaster involved my youngest son, Charlie and the kitchen stove (you can see where this is going, I can tell). Ever since he was old enough to recognize speech and move independently, I have uttered some variation on the same theme: don't touch the stove. I have used various phrases and worst case scenarios over the years; the straightforward: "Don't touch the stove, it's hot.", the prevention method: "Don't touch the stove, you never know if it's hot.", the dire warning: "Don't touch the stove, you'll burn yourself." and the worst case scenario: "Don't touch the stove, it's hot, you'll burn off all your skin, develop an infection which will result in your hand being amputated which will lead to gangrene, you'll linger a few months, put your parents into insurmountable debt and eventually die." As a last resort, I went with the classic: "Don't touch the stove because I said so." Alas, none of these warnings seem to have registered with my youngest, my budding scientist who has a genetic predisposition to test every single thing he's told. Maybe he just thinks I'm full of crap, I'm trying to keep him from doing ANYTHING fun or I'm a master of reverse psychology.
Last Sunday, as I worked on reassembling all the music my beloved computer had decided to purge from RealPlayer (and then arbitrarily reassign file names of songs to other songs, but that's a story for another day), Charlie strolls into the office with a popsicle in his mouth and casually informs me that he thinks he might have burned his finger. Keeping it as casual as he did, I suggested he go run some cold water on the afflicted area and continued my muttering and swearing under my breath at the computer. Roughly ten minutes later, I hear a screech from my husband in the other room, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HAND!?", followed by my name bellowed at the top of his lungs. I bolt out of the office, tripping over five shoes, thirteen Legos and at least one cat on the way to the living room. I'm greeted by blisters roughly the size of green beans blooming on the back of all of the fingers on Charlie's left hand. This is going to be a bot more than my tube of Neosporin can handle, so it's off to the emergency room (again). Thankfully, we live only four blocks from the hospital (small town, no one is ever more than five minutes away from crack medical care). Charlie and I bundle into the car and head off into the afternoon sun, the beginning of a journey that will take us somewhere we never imagined.
We arrive at the hospital, the large red and white sign marked "EMERGENCY ENTRANCE" indicating that we're in the right place. How young we were, how foolish to believe something like an official-looking sign to direct us in our time of need. I should have known something was horribly awry when all the parking places were marked "For Emergency Personnel Only". Well, I'm a person and this seems like a emergency to me, I'm gonna risk it and park here. We enter the building and a corridor stretches in front of us like something from a funhouse, it's got to be a city block long and the pinpoint of light ahead of us is the only indication of life. We set off into the abyss, the light guiding us forward like a beacon in the night. We end up at the opposite end of the hospital...I'm talking the front of the building...the front not marked "EMERGENCY ENTRANCE" with even fewer parking spaces. Our first contact is the receptionist who, recognizing the severity of the burns on Charlie's hand, whisks us quickly and efficiently to the admitting clerk...I'm so glad she was able to keep calm for Charlie's sake. After I've proven the boy has insurance coverage, the hospital personnel spring into action to tend to my child's burned hand and get a high tech, sure to cure him, wet washcloth and send us out into the lobby. Remember that I live in a town of less than 10,000 people and a total of five stoplights, so we're not talking an "ER" like level of activity on a Sunday afternoon.
Thirty minutes pass, we've watched a full episode of "Drake and Josh" on the lobby television, the washcloth is rapidly drying out and we haven't seen another soul for at least fifteen of those minutes. I turn to ask the crack receptionist for a pitcher of water so I can maybe slow down the continually blossoming blisters on the boy's hand and am told "I can't leave my post." Swear to God, that is a direct quote. I told her that was fine, but perhaps she could use the wireless headset I suspect she's glued to her ear so everyone knows she's important even when she's not working to request a bit of cold water for the eight year old in the lobby. I'm informed that they're terribly busy and every room in the emergency department is occupied and he'd be seen as soon as they could get to him. This didn't really help, as all I was looking for was some cold water so I suggested she give me her coffee mug and I'd take care of it myself. She seemed shocked and I didn't get the mug. Ultimately, I end up trying to stuff the poor kid's hand into one of those pointy ended cups that live in the dispenser attached to a five gallon jug of drinking water. Not easily done, I assure you.
Two hours later, after a threat to take him over to the next big town's emergency room (30 miles away), we're brought back to the emergency room proper. After hearing for over two hours how busy they are and that every room is occupied, I'm expecting the nurses to look a bit battle weary and careworn. Not so much. Also, of the six trauma rooms and three small examining rooms in my field of vision, only two are occupied...four of the trauma rooms are dark and show no sign of any activity having taken place for a while. From the bits of conversation I could hear, more than one person back there had been watching football...the same game that had been in the first quarter when Charlie and I left the house. Hmmm, curious. The doctor takes one look at Charlie's hand, the nurse slathers it with Silver Nitrate, wraps it in gauze and sends us on our way. Seriously, we couldn't have done this in the lobby...TWO HOURS ago? He's fine...thanks to the highly trained and obviously underappreciated receptionist at my local hospital.
I'm hoping that Charlie no longer believes that I am full of crap when I say the things I say. "Don't juggle axes, you'll cut your arms off." "Don't play in the middle of the highway, you'll get squished by a car." "Don't try to give the cat a shower, he'll get mad and pee in your shoe again." You know, the things we all tell our kids.
Yesterday, I got a survey in the mail, asking me how my visit to the emergency department was.
Last Sunday, as I worked on reassembling all the music my beloved computer had decided to purge from RealPlayer (and then arbitrarily reassign file names of songs to other songs, but that's a story for another day), Charlie strolls into the office with a popsicle in his mouth and casually informs me that he thinks he might have burned his finger. Keeping it as casual as he did, I suggested he go run some cold water on the afflicted area and continued my muttering and swearing under my breath at the computer. Roughly ten minutes later, I hear a screech from my husband in the other room, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HAND!?", followed by my name bellowed at the top of his lungs. I bolt out of the office, tripping over five shoes, thirteen Legos and at least one cat on the way to the living room. I'm greeted by blisters roughly the size of green beans blooming on the back of all of the fingers on Charlie's left hand. This is going to be a bot more than my tube of Neosporin can handle, so it's off to the emergency room (again). Thankfully, we live only four blocks from the hospital (small town, no one is ever more than five minutes away from crack medical care). Charlie and I bundle into the car and head off into the afternoon sun, the beginning of a journey that will take us somewhere we never imagined.
We arrive at the hospital, the large red and white sign marked "EMERGENCY ENTRANCE" indicating that we're in the right place. How young we were, how foolish to believe something like an official-looking sign to direct us in our time of need. I should have known something was horribly awry when all the parking places were marked "For Emergency Personnel Only". Well, I'm a person and this seems like a emergency to me, I'm gonna risk it and park here. We enter the building and a corridor stretches in front of us like something from a funhouse, it's got to be a city block long and the pinpoint of light ahead of us is the only indication of life. We set off into the abyss, the light guiding us forward like a beacon in the night. We end up at the opposite end of the hospital...I'm talking the front of the building...the front not marked "EMERGENCY ENTRANCE" with even fewer parking spaces. Our first contact is the receptionist who, recognizing the severity of the burns on Charlie's hand, whisks us quickly and efficiently to the admitting clerk...I'm so glad she was able to keep calm for Charlie's sake. After I've proven the boy has insurance coverage, the hospital personnel spring into action to tend to my child's burned hand and get a high tech, sure to cure him, wet washcloth and send us out into the lobby. Remember that I live in a town of less than 10,000 people and a total of five stoplights, so we're not talking an "ER" like level of activity on a Sunday afternoon.
Thirty minutes pass, we've watched a full episode of "Drake and Josh" on the lobby television, the washcloth is rapidly drying out and we haven't seen another soul for at least fifteen of those minutes. I turn to ask the crack receptionist for a pitcher of water so I can maybe slow down the continually blossoming blisters on the boy's hand and am told "I can't leave my post." Swear to God, that is a direct quote. I told her that was fine, but perhaps she could use the wireless headset I suspect she's glued to her ear so everyone knows she's important even when she's not working to request a bit of cold water for the eight year old in the lobby. I'm informed that they're terribly busy and every room in the emergency department is occupied and he'd be seen as soon as they could get to him. This didn't really help, as all I was looking for was some cold water so I suggested she give me her coffee mug and I'd take care of it myself. She seemed shocked and I didn't get the mug. Ultimately, I end up trying to stuff the poor kid's hand into one of those pointy ended cups that live in the dispenser attached to a five gallon jug of drinking water. Not easily done, I assure you.
Two hours later, after a threat to take him over to the next big town's emergency room (30 miles away), we're brought back to the emergency room proper. After hearing for over two hours how busy they are and that every room is occupied, I'm expecting the nurses to look a bit battle weary and careworn. Not so much. Also, of the six trauma rooms and three small examining rooms in my field of vision, only two are occupied...four of the trauma rooms are dark and show no sign of any activity having taken place for a while. From the bits of conversation I could hear, more than one person back there had been watching football...the same game that had been in the first quarter when Charlie and I left the house. Hmmm, curious. The doctor takes one look at Charlie's hand, the nurse slathers it with Silver Nitrate, wraps it in gauze and sends us on our way. Seriously, we couldn't have done this in the lobby...TWO HOURS ago? He's fine...thanks to the highly trained and obviously underappreciated receptionist at my local hospital.
I'm hoping that Charlie no longer believes that I am full of crap when I say the things I say. "Don't juggle axes, you'll cut your arms off." "Don't play in the middle of the highway, you'll get squished by a car." "Don't try to give the cat a shower, he'll get mad and pee in your shoe again." You know, the things we all tell our kids.
Yesterday, I got a survey in the mail, asking me how my visit to the emergency department was.
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