Titillating Tuesday: It's a trap!

As Mike logged his third consecutive hour carousing the internet last night, looking for guns and chef's coats (which, I might add, he is now claiming he should have followed through on purchasing), I realized a horrible truth: I would soon be fighting him for computer time in order to do my homework.

Oh, the terror!

I devised a system in my head in my typical OCD fashion, mostly involving a stoplight system according to how urgently I needed to kick him off.

He must've been feeling a telepathic twinge in his brain because he immediately asked how much money we had.

Go buy a laptop tomorrow. You need it for school.

Do I need it for school? or did you realize that your computer time would be drastically reduced and you're now panicking?

No matter the reasoning behind his sudden turnaround on buying non-gun things, I'm feeling like this is a trap.

And scheming up my next move.

---

On top of all the computer speculation, I talked Mike into buying some blocks for edging out my gardens. Actually, I didn't do much asking. I hijacked my dad's truck and ran off to Menard's for block, and Mike decided to come along for the ride and criticize my life choices (aka: having too many projects) the entire way.

You see, everywhere I went the past two months, it seems as though I was always coming home with free or nearly free flowers.

Work for Stephie? Free flowers.

Sit at the greenhouse and drink with Stephie? Cheap flowers with a side of free flowers.

And two nights ago, we visited my parents after their return from a long camping trip at the Lake of the Ozarks. A couple hours in, Mom turned to me suddenly, Do you need some flowers? I've got some flowers, but we've got to sneak them out the back of the garage!

She explained that the neighbor had given her some extra irises and Mom didn't realize until later that she already had them in her gardens. And Mom apparently has some kind of bizarro Flower World kind of Affirmative Action going on when it comes to plant percentages.

I hummed the Mission Impossible theme song as Mike, Mom and I tip-toed around the back of her garage, through another neighbor's lawn and bushes, and into the back of our Suburban with a couple boxes of what looks like tall grass.

People probably think we're nutjobs already, so I can only imagine what they thought of us "stealing off" with a box of grass.

Mike pointed out: I think we already grow this stuff in our lawn. I chopped it down with the lawn mower two days ago.

Touche'.

So the moral of this story is that I have a shitload of flowers. I didn't want them to die, which is why I've moved onto this Summer's project #482: Build gardens.

---

When Mike and I got to Menard's, I noticed something amazing! The block was 15c off! (Amazing, right? Well, amazing when you have to buy 400 of them...)

I started thinking...

and thinking...

and thinking...

I'd always wanted to run brick along the edge of our driveway, ever since I saw every single fancy house had it. And no one in our neighborhood did. (I like being different. Can you tell? I bet I'm the only 30-year-old you know with chin acne...)

Anyway, we filled up my dad's truck with mulch and block and headed home.

I immediately regretted not getting more block.

On comes Summer project #483: Edge the driveway.

---

I called Menard's the next day, and - even with my sister rooting against me - they agreed to give me the sale price even though it had expired.

Haha, SUCK IT.

We drove back and filled up with $100 more in block with great aspirations of having a beautiful driveway.

Two days later, we have THIS:

A half-finished garden and a quarter-finished driveway edge.

My favorite moment of the week was when the elderly gentleman drove past me, huffing and puffing and stomping on the shovel. He said, Hittin' rock there? This was the empty lot they used to dump the rock and dirt on during construction.

Seriously??? OHMYGODKILL.

We have every manner of sharp-edged tool on our driveway so we can have various methods of hackage to mix things up. Hammers. Ice-picks. Trowels. Shovels. Post hole diggers.

Summer project #484: Get a foot massage.

---

As I was sweating and no doubt sporting some lovely pimplage on my dirty brow, a lovely young girl from Estonia (Google it) ran up in a pair of short shorts and Russian-esque accent.

She was selling Southwestern books. I told her four times I was NOT interested, but was nice and chatted with her for a minute so I could get a break from kneeling on gravel.

As she ran away, I told Mike, That's your dream job, isn't it? Running from door to door in your short shorts, talking to housewives? I'm thinking you could make a career of it.

He's planning on growing his hair out until Christmas now, so I'm thinking he could pass for a really, really ugly German woman. And before any of you Germans protest, I AM that really hairy, ugly German woman.

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone! It's back to work for me...

I have seen the future... we're gonna burn

I looked at the radar last night and saw - what appeared to be - the end of the world.

Then I remembered that Michele Bachmann was announcing her bid for the presidency today in Waterloo, Iowa.

Which explains a lot.

Hell, even in her opening prayer in the Legislature, she's convinced the End Times are upon us...

Lord, the day is at hand. We are in the last days.... We know that the times are in Your hands... The blossom on the fig tree is opening, the day is at hand, Lord, when Your return will come nigh. Nothing is more important than bringing more sheep into the fold... Lord, this is all about replacement. You tell us in Your Word to go and make disciples... I thank You, oh God, that You are literally, right now, by faith, You are lighting a fire, a fire of the Gospel, that would sweep this city, that even moreso, that it would sweep Minnesota, and that Minnesota would just become [whispering] a burning incense, a sweet-smelling incense of praise and sacrifice, into Your kingdom.

If there's anything we need more of, it's uber-Christian, loud-mouthed women in politics. When did it become popular or normal to wear your crazy on your sleeve? Remember back in the day when old conservative men would say something racist and we'd all be "They're just senile... bless his heart," but now they've got tits and hair stylists so it's okay to systematically discriminate against people who aren't straight white Christians, not only in personal lives but legally?

I have two words: Go, Mitt!

Anyway.

Steph's Farmer's Market went fairly well this past weekend. I sold one set of jewelry and spent most of my time trying to pronounce kohlrabi. That's a real thing. And people evidently love them.

Steph had so much lettuce, we were giving them away as parting gifts. Oh, you bought 5 tomatoes and some kohlrabi? Here's your free head of lettuce.

The little old ladies liked the jewelry, but weren't as amused (as I was) at my magnets.

It was fun. I added yet another layer to my sunburn, and my children are just now starting to turn chocolate brown. Thank Jeebus they got Mike's skin.

Since everyone's thinking about sunburns and sun protection, I thought I'd post this picture I found from an Australian research group.

It shows the extra skin cancer cases that are projected over the next 50 years due to the increased UV radiation caused by - you guessed it - the depleted ozone. Radiation. The sun isn't just sending heat... it's radiation. You think global warming is a myth? That's fine. Thanks for stopping by. Enjoy your complimentary melanoma.

And on a final note:

For people who say that the Japanese nuclear crisis could never happen here? I live in very close proximity to an active nuclear power plant. There very well could be a day the sirens would go off and I would have to throw my kids in the car and never come back to my home. Don't believe me: ask the people in two Nebraska towns how confident they are about their power plants' abilities to avoid a more severe flood in the future.

Mother Nature is more powerful than we are. Just a thought!

(You never heard of a broken windmill forcing a regional low-level emergency... or worse.)

Best laid plans

I could kill someone, specifically the quality control personnel at Swingset Manufacturers of China.

Just before dusk, I finished dragging the bloody corpse of a swingset into its 2-foot-deep grave. Once reasonably level and stable - me, not the swingset - I climbed on a ladder and plopped each of the chains onto the hinges.

Plink!

Plink!

Plink, plink!

Plink!

Five down, last one...

ERK!!!

ERRRRRRRKKKKKK....

It refused to drop in. Upon further investigation, the gap is about .5mm too narrow, and no amount of swearing, debating or plier-pulling was going to convince it to be otherwise.

The girls cared not.

They took turns last night, out in the mist, swinging and pushing. Pushing and swinging.

I couldn't get them to stop long enough to fill in the mud holes.

This morning, I threw cereal at them and watched Emma's monkey face as she realized the swingset was REAL. It wasn't just a hallucination after all! All three kids flocked outside where they spent the next hour in the spritzing rain.

MY children. The kids who are so deathly afraid of thunderstorms that I catch them watching the rain approach on the radar channel. They were outside in the RAIN.

It was almost too good to be true. I reached my arm outside to snap this picture:

(Notice the swing to the right not being used? I have the link wedged so fucking hard in there, it's gonna take a sumo wrestler sitting in the swing to pop it out. Nonetheless, I told the girls if they sat in it before I fixed it, they're going to lose swingset privileges. Which should tell you how desperate my kids are for a swingset of their own since they never listen to me.)

Now I have to decide how much I care if they have a play-pirate-ship on the east end. Which is not that much at the present moment. Maybe it's because I'm still pissed off at that link...

Also going well? My gardens.

In the realm of everything you really don't give a donkey's rear about: I have leafy lettuce ready to harvest. I noticed only after one of my very-much-not-a-head-lettuce plants bolted and I was all What the eff is going on with this lettuce that it's bolting, why haven't any of them started to form heads ohmygod I'm a moron.

(Almost that quickly.)

I chopped the sucker down and fed the girls and myself a 10PM salad "snack." This means I have about 18 lettuce plants ready or almost ready for harvest.

Salads, anyone?

I didn't think I'd be QUITE this excited to have my own garden, but as I rinsed the dirt off some head lettuce today, I realized we aren't eating chemicals. We're eating something that I planted and watched grow, leaf by leaf.

It's a weird feeling. I'm really not all that granola-y. I don't typically buy organic (I'm not anti-organic... I'm just too lazy to hunt through the products). I've rinsed off the store food and wondered if I'm rinsing it or scrubbing it hard enough to remove all the shit - sometimes literally shit - and what it's doing to our bodies. Not that I felt I had any real choice in the matter.

Now I do.

And it's making me feel like a gardening superhero.

In fact, I'm channeling some Veronica Corningstone today: Power... Powerrrrr...

We noticed our first Roma and Better Boy tomatoes sprouting fruit last night, and this morning I saw an itty bitty, teeny weeny bell pepper growing.

The excitement in our house is almost palpable.

Because I never know what day it is

Hey, guess what! Yesterday was Titillating Tuesday. I thought it was Thursday until the neighbor informed me otherwise. Yay for unemployment!

---

I called my sister from the road at about 1:00 yesterday. We're on our way home from Menard's with the swingset materials. I'm hoping we can finish it up tonight and get back to my other projects.

Yeah right, you won't get it done tonight.

Wanna bet?

Sure. But I expect photo evidence.

What do I get if I win?

Sushi.

You're on.

By the way, I - unlike Mike - see nothing unsafe about having 14 feet of lumber running through the center of the Suburban while traveling 75 mph. If anything, we've become one giant ramrod.

Emma: Why does it stink in here now?

It's the cancer-causing chemicals in the wood, honey. Don't worry, though. It's in there so our swingset doesn't dry out or rot. Enjoy the smell!

Mike rolled up (in his now-fixed car... it was supposedly a "burp" in the radiator line) about 7:00. I had the A-frames completely finished and was working on manhandling one of them perpendicular to the top boards. That seems really late, but I spent an hour looking for EITHER ONE of my two measuring tapes. The kids run off with them all the time, which is why you'll hear me hollering at them if I hear How tall is my bike? How long is my shoe?

I did find my kids' Scholastic book marks with built-in rulers, but I refused to mark my project up, 8-inch increments at a time.

It's feast or famine around here for help, and holy crap, last night I was running out of jobs for people.

Mike held the frames upright while I worked. I borrowed a 3/8" drill bit from the neighbors just up the street (two times on the blog in one week, Natalie... you're movin' on up!) because out of my ENTIRE KIT, it was the only one I needed and the only one missing. What kind of crappy operation am I running here???

Then neighbors started converging on the site like it was a fatal car crash.

Another neighbor grabbed his wrenches and pitched in.

Yet another climbed up to try to attach the chains (the frame is sitting 10' off the ground currently).

All trying to finish up before THIS rolled through:

Ominous, yes?

Maybe they could tell how desperate we are for outdoor entertainment for the children.

OR they overheard something about winning free sushi.

OR they overheard me saying that we should forget sinking it 2' in the ground and leave it tall enough in case the adults get drunk and decide to swing. In a literal sense.

After all that work, we still couldn't attach the swings. It didn't stop Alison from being the first child to injure herself on it by running full-out into the frame, hitting her head and her collar bone.

I'm rethinking this whole endeavor...

Anyway, I sent this picture to my sister:

She can't tell that it's not this:

...and instead is a swingless skeleton.

I'm wondering if she wins by technicality because we're missing the clasps to attach the chains?

Todays' task: sinking that sonofabitch 2 feet deep and wrestling it to its final resting place.

One last note: Late this morning, I sat down and futzed around with a few ideas for that extra end piece. The kids love pirates...

I've got a bunch of extra lumber lying around my garage.

I'm going to pick whichever child is annoying me the most and make her test it out. I'll let you know how it goes.

It could be worse

After the "raccoon incident," which I'm certain Mike will argue is not technically a car accident but more of a furry speedbump, we took our car to the shop.

Specifically Quality Auto in Marion.

This was a week ago Sunday.

We waited. I called. They put me on hold. A lot. They promised to call back. They did... the next day. I waited some more. They had no idea what kind of timeline we were looking at. They didn't know if the car was finished.

They finally put me on hold for the last time this morning to fetch someone who might know anything about Mike's car. It's kind of convenient to be able to drive your car to work, after all.

It's just being washed up now and should be ready at noon.

Fantastic! Phew. Mike picked it up and put me on speakerphone while we chatted about the pizza he'd just collected.

Then he got silent.

A bad silence.

His car had overheated and quit running. He limped it into Target's parking lot, and I threw on some jeans and packed my grubby-looking children into our Suburban. We shopped for groceries and I told Mike: It could be worse. You could've been on the Interstate.

As we left, he checked the coolant and noticed it had dropped considerably.

He put aside his feelings of frustration and drove out of the parking lot, down the block...

and back into the parking lot.

The godforsaken thing had started overheating AGAIN.

I told him: It could be worse. We could've gotten it all the way home before realizing it wasn't fixed right. At least now it's still in town, and maybe I can convince them to reimburse you some gas money for your trouble.

We went home, tired from the stress (and tired from the 4 hours of sleep I'd gotten last night).

I couldn't wait to put all the days' events behind me and deal with it in the morning. I really believe it could've been much worse than paying our $100 deductible for a new bumper, radiator, condenser... etc. It could've been worse.

I readied myself for bed around midnight tonight and noticed....

It just got worse.
Guess who'll be sleeping on the couch in full-out clothes in case a mad dash to the basement with children tucked in a football hold is required in the next one to two hours?
It could be worse.
I could be with my parents in their camper in the midst of storm warnings in Missouri.

The mess

I'm always in awe when I walk into a person's home and it's organized. Especially when they have children. And when the visit comes unannounced.

I'd like to do a TV show involving me and a camera crew showing up at people's doorsteps with a wad of cash if they'd only show us what their house looks like at its worst. Like Hoarders but not as depressing and where the people would more than gladly pitch their junk if they could only find the time in between wiping asses and unclamping teeth from their ankles.

While my house isn't always messy, there are things about my home that make me cringe.

Usually involving the old standby of our toxic couch - a piece of furniture that has been disinfected with piss more times than a urinal cake, yet we for whatever reason haven't replaced.

(And people wonder why we don't host parties.)

I'd cover it with plastic, but we like to live dangerously. It's been a while since the last fecal contamination, and I figure the half life of shit has to be, what? 10 years? Definitely longer when covered in saran wrap.

Then there's the girls' toilet that I don't bother scrubbing anymore. I squirt the blue Clorox goo in it three times over the course of a day and let the chemicals eat away the disease.

And their bedroom. The place from which the mystery smell eminates, no matter how many times I steam clean the floor. I'm convinced they're hiding dairy products somewhere... the heating vents, perhaps?

Yes, their room - the place that I ask them to clean lest I put their tooth pillows out in the evening (and we all know that the Tooth Fairy bites ankles of naughty children with dirty rooms, and yes, I'm saving for therapy).

And I try, oh I try so hard.

Yesterday was a prime example. The house was gloriously clean for the first hour. Then the kids hit it like a fucking freight train filled with markers and dry cereal hits a cement wall...

Oh, there are things I love about the messes.

Like stickers.

A small, silver heart sticker glitters up at me from the oak kitchen floor. It's a reminder of the times the girls would strip nearly naked and paint and sticker the bejeezus out of giant sheets of paper.

Or Lego creations that I find hidden away, tucked into bookshelves and in the middle of the hallway where one might walk to the bathroom at 3AM in the dark.

They're resourceful in exacting revenge.

So it never dawned on me to investigate into what was holding Emma's newest pumpkin artwork to the hallway wall.

I figured they'd found some tape.

And I was all, Whatever I don't care because it gave me an hour when I didn't have to answer the questions: Are we gonna have a tornado today? and I'm hungry, which isn't really a question but a demand, yet it requires putting immediately down whatever object I'm relieving of day-old pizza sauce with my fingernail in order to fetch food that I'll find encrusted to the floor or furniture the next morning and thus we have the Circle of Life.

Then Emma came up to me, proudly using her Vanna Hands to show me her gallery du jour.

She exclaimed: I licked it to the wall!

Of course you did, honey.

Of course you did.

Date night and the garden exchange

This past week, the girls and I drove to Stephie's shop to cover it for a few hours while she took Elliott to the doctor. The doc said he's having what are called 'partial seizures.' (He goes in on Thursday for an EEG... hopefully we'll know more very soon.)

My sister has since kissed my arse and bought me flowers and taken my children overnight. I haven't been courted this intensely since... well, never.

In case you're curious, Mike and I spent our Date Night at Zeppelin's where I had the most delicious Beef Foie Gras on top of mushrooms and asparagus with a side of parmesan potatoes. Ohmygodyum.

The food is delicious and the atmosphere is very museum-underground-tavernesque.

Plus when the "boss" took my drink order and got it wrong, he brought me a second beer even though I told them it was fine and I would choke down a Bud Light. Maybe not in those words.

Mike agreed they were trying to get me drunk.

Especially since we'd just come from a graduation party for our neighbor's son and I'd tied a few on.

Which might be why I found this funny on the walk home:

It reads: Get off the phone and drive.

And the car parked behind it:

Scrape!

Maybe it was just funny to me...

Anyway, the rest of our date night was spent at Best Buy, Barnes & Noble, my father-in-law's house to feed his cats, and then to MY parents' house to crash and watch Hall Pass. Funny but not a real feel-good movie if you're living in the world of Everyone I Know Is Getting Divorced This Year.

We're the lamest 30-year-olds EVER.

Just to prove it: I was more excited that my radishes were ready to harvest than I was to have a Date Night.

So excited that I immediately ran some over to the neighbors' house to share in my radishy wealth.

They, in turn, gave me a heaping handful of rhubarb. YUMMY!

I'm thinking we should work out some kind of crop rotation between the three of us neighbors who are gardening and have a garden exchange. We could mix it in with that game night we'd been talking about reviving. I'll see your garlic and raise you a head of lettuce.

We could knock out grocery shopping and Date Night in one shot.

The next phase

Things around here are pretty fantastic, as always.

My beans and peas and corn and other late-seeded veggies are poking through the ground...

and my main garden is full and growing "fuller" every day.

Holy cabbages.

My shelves are done in the garage, and my gardens are in.

So of course that means it's time to add a new project.

I spent the last two days - hence the lack of blogging - working on my Fall schedule. I'm going to finish my Bachelors Degree in PoliComm and Psych Minor. I only have 32 credit hours left. I can say "only" now because I've decided that I'm graduating this next Spring even if I had FIFTY GAZILLION hours. I'll be the first in my family to get a Bachelors, so this is important to me. Important enough to go back on a Caffeine Only diet if need be.

(For those who are unfamiliar, 12 credit hours is full time. Usually 3-4 classes.)

I'm currently signed up for 16 credit hours for Fall and aiming for 3-6 more as Independent Study.

I can hear your doubts.

I am READY for this part of my life to be over. I enjoy going to school, but I hate hate hate driving 45 minutes each way and HATE juggling my children and housework and schoolwork.

Because I'd prefer not to spend every moment with them cleaning, but they do not cooperate when it comes to limiting their damage. Even when they're not rubbing mud on my walls or plugging my toilets or stashing dairy products under the furniture, they're constantly moving stuff around. Or creating hazards. Every time I open the dishwasher, an alphabet soup of letters clatters to the floor.

They hide my stuff from me.They reorganize and redecorate.

It's a miracle if I can find stuff, let alone put it back where it belongs so I can start to clean.

I call it Square One.

I haven't seen Square One in months.

After getting the house at least in the vicinity of Square One, I reach the phase of my cleaning called: I Stopped Giving a Shart Two Chores Ago.

I shiver at the thought of what my house might look like in August.

In fact, I'm considering asking for slightly more in Student Loans to hire a maid for the duration.

In other late-breaking news, my father-in-law is getting married in two months to a lovely woman he met at the end of last year. Proof that lightning can strike at any time. Mazel tov!

I would like to take this opportunity to tell my sister that he's 60 this year, so it should give her hope that she won't always be a cat lady. Even though she tells me she prefers the cats...

Mike will also have a new 15-year-old step-sister.

Whom I've never met, but I'm sure she's lovely as well.

My new goal? Graduate before my step-sister-in-law-to-be.

---

My sister called me this morning saying she's pretty sure Elliott's been having seizures again. They go in to see his ped (also our girls'... he's a neonatalogist and FANTASTIC) this afternoon. Keep them in your thoughts, if you could.

Titillating Tuesday: Tantrums and lies

Happy Tuesday!

---

I was having myself a little think this morning...

Remember back to the days when candidates for the presidency were virtual unknowns outside of their constituencies? And we got to learn about their political theories and records over time and debate?

And now you aren't a candidate for public office unless you're a quasi-celebrity?

Goes to show how shallow WE, THE PEOPLE are. For Christssake, the biggest "political development" the last couple months has been Wiener's erection.

Weiner.

Weiner's Weiner.

I need to take my blood pressure. My neck veins are about to POP and my anxiety is only going to grow over the next 17 months.

---

In other news, my kids are great at restaurants.

We sat at Olive Garden yesterday while Mike went on a bike ride around Cedar Rapids. The girls - though freezing to death under the Arctic Ice-Blowing AC unit - sat still and colored quietly. Then they ate their calamari and pasta and thanked the lady next to us when she handed them her mints.

I even took Alison to the bathroom, leaving two alone at the table, then later sent the last two to the bathroom while holding hands.

Can you believe it?

So why, when we get in the car, does all hell break loose?!? Every single time?!?

I've brought the car to a stop in the middle of a road and threatened to pull the offenders out for a very public timeout. That was the only thing that has worked so far, by the way. For whatever reason, they're deathly afraid of having people SEE them misbehaving. Or they're afraid I'll drive off. Not undeservedly.

Hitting.

Kicking.

Leaning. Because making physical contact with a sibling is enough to send everyone into a tizzy.

Singing.

Looking. Because LOOKING at a sibling is enough to send everyone into a tizzy.

Whining about where we're going.

Whining about where we're NOT going.

Crying that they miss Daddy. I miss Daddy, too. If Daddy was there, I'd be giving him the Don't Follow Me Where I'm Headed look and run off into the sunset.

Seeing a squirrel when someone else did NOT see the squirrel.

Sitting in the wrong seat.

Playing with the extra seatbelt.

Telling someone they smell like a Dirty Underpants Face.

I have never heard so many reasons to bring on fighting in my life.

---

I have to get going. Lots to do outside before the rain that I assume is coming.

Not because I've checked the radar, but if patterns hold steady, we should be getting a torrential downpour at some point.

N is for Nuts in your Nostrils

We have big plans for the day, which of course means this beautiful sun is going to be interrupted in the afternoon by thunderstorms.

Mike wants me to drop him off in Cedar Rapids so he can bike all the way back home. I sure hope he can pedal fast...

I'm hoping the storms break up because I'm building the girls their swingset today.

I'm more excited about it than they are.

Yippee!!!! Mommy's gonna get some time away from you lovely children whom I love so much all I could think about last night was what I'm going to do while you're outside swinging for hours and hours and hours.

So I don't have much time to chit chat.

And if you pray, pray that this storm magically averts my town.

I'll leave you with these visuals of my sister at the crawfish boil yesterday:

Because if you learn anything from MY family, it's that: food with arms must be played with. (My mother can never pass up the opportunity to dance with cornish hens.)

And: if it can fit in your nostril, it should definitely go there.
My children are growing up to think this kind of behavior is normal.

God bless us, every one!

Working in circles

Did I imagine all of April and May because I thought the rainy portion of this year had passed us by?

For the record, I hate being one of those people who bitch about the crappy weather, but c'mon. THIS:

is the best day we've had all week. Everything else has been Hotter than Satan's Ass Crack - and just as gritty - or Tornado.

But at least our beans and peas are poking their little heads through the dirt!

Okay, I feel better now.

Today, the sun peeked out in the latter half, so I threw the girls outside with threats of me locking them out of the house if they kept letting the cat loose.

(I should note that I also hate being that person who lists all of their daily tasks as a blog post, so let's get that out of the way now so my brain can think.)

Hung the leftover insulation, cut the shelves, put shelves in place, filled more storage bins, cleaned up the garage, and retrieved the cat a half dozen times since the children never ever EVER listen to me. Phew.

This is where I'm at.

You could say it's getting there... slowly. (And can anyone help me with this little problem? The corner spaces aren't 16"OC but more like 9. Is there a trick to putting pre-faced insulation in without doing a hack job on it?)

Mike drove up a bit earlier than expected today and he watched me "at work." He finally stepped in when it looked like I'd lost my sense of direction.

You've been moving around a whole lot the last 15 minutes but haven't done anything. Like, you're REALLY moving around.

I wish I could say that pissed me off and we fought, but I laughed because it was true - I'm literally one of those people who becomes broken when I have too many tasks to complete. I am Spanish Buzz Lightyear. Except I default to going through the motions. Usually that means walking in circles. It's my take from that famous When Harry Met Sally line: Do SOMETHING that resembles ANYTHING!
Anyway, I think my brain is broken after trying to navigate UNI's Course Catalog.

I'm going back to school for what I can only hope is my final year - pray to Jesus and Buddha - this fall.

And if you want the perfect example of what is wrong in bureacracies (and I should mention that I'm a fan of a functional government, not the LACK of one), look at this school's catalog.

On Degree Requirements, courses are listed as such: 100:345. Department:Class#. It works.

But on the Class Schedule, the same class is listed like THIS: COMM PC 5345.

This requires another book to figure out which classes belong to which codes.

Then you have to figure out which single class to take because 95% of the classes this semester are from 10-11AM, MWF. And unless I can clone myself before August, I doubt they'll let me enroll for all of them and only show up once a week.

Total mindf*ck.

Also on my mind:

I'm in total panic that my dryer is going to burst into flames because I'm a paranoid freak whose dryer exhaust hose has started drooping into curly-cues conveniently the same week that I read an article about the danger of dryer lint.

I'm trying to coordinate dropping off Mike's car to get fixed. He nailed a raccoon doing 75 on the interstate and screwed up his radiator and condenser along with his bumper. I have learned that hitting a raccoon is not considered a collision, thus leaving us with only a $100 deductible. I'd dare the insurance company to ask the raccoon if he felt it was a collision...

I feel the summer slowly slipping away from us and we have no camping vacations planned. Yet again.

Where is Alison's damned Leapster so they can stop fighting over them?

My lawn needs to be mowed and I'm wondering if I missed my only rain-free opportunity today when I jerked off with insulation* in the garage instead of baling the hay-grass.

I fed my kids TWO processed meals today. TWO. I'm going to hippie hell.

And on.

And on.

And on.

It might explain why it's 3AM and I'm still awake, watching The Bachelorette online instead of sleeping.

(By the way, whothefuck does that Bentley guy think he is and why do I totally want to see JP naked?)

So yeah.

Maybe I should go back to pacing my house in circles. At least I looked busy...

*itchy!

People without children, AKA: Politeness*

Regardless of how this post might be taken by people trying to conceive, this was NOT meant to bash my children or gloss over the fact that I love them and realize every day how lucky we are to have them.

That said...

Every. single. bloody. day I have revelations about the odd predicaments Mike and I get in because we have small people in our house.

Here we go.

People without children:

• might wonder Where did that stain come from? on their favorite blouse, carpet, wall... But I never do. I know where it came from.


• might actually own a blouse. That still fits. And isn't just a hopeful reminder of how agreeable your boobs used to be.


• might plant a garden to eat food. Not me. I plant a garden so I have a place to send my children when they ask Can I have a SNACK? the 1000th time that day.


• enroll in college to get an education or get a promotion. I enroll in college so I have an excuse to lock myself away in a quiet room while napping perusing Failbook doing "homework."


• never have to wonder: What's getting destroyed in the house right now? as they mow their lawn.


• rarely have to keep tabs on where bathrooms are at all times. Unless you're 80. Or have eaten questionable burritos in the last 12 hours.


• probably haven't imagined yelling Will everyone just shut the f*** up and pay attention! while playing a board game.


• can poop in peace.


• don't keep a stockpile of ear plugs, Advil and alcohol as "emergency supplies."


• have never turned to your spouse and said: That one's yours.


• don't set bowls of dry cereal out the night before and pre-set the TV to the cartoon channel so they can sleep in until 8 on the weekends.


• have never told someone that blood is just paint and to nevermind that movie why aren't you playing in your room?


• have never analyzed why Caillou doesn't have hair or why Max & Ruby don't have parents.


• don't spend 20 minutes before making supper convincing people that they might like eggplant if they'd just TRY it.


• rarely find turd submarines in their toilets, and certainly not several times a day.


• don't flip out at the sound of water running for more than 20 seconds.


• might ask: Who's Sandra Boynton?


• think Leapsters and other handheld games are contributing to the demise of society.


• never sort their laundry according to which items most likely have fecal residue on them.


• have never had a conversation to reassure someone that they're not bleeding to death, and that tampons are just like "toilet paper for mommies" now get out of the bathroom!


• don't have to share their popcorn lest someone cries.


• can have a phone conversation without locking yourself in a bathroom/bedroom/basement.


• can make it through the grocery store without having a dozen conversations with strangers about your plans to have/not have more children and how they feel about the issue. Okay, that one might be just for multiples.


• - speaking of sex - will never have that horrifying moment after Nighttime Activities when you open the door to see two silent silhouettes of blanket-covered children, posting guard just outside your door because they're afraid of "funderstorms."


• won't giggle the accompanying conversation with your spouse: "I wonder how long they were standing there." "At least they were polite enough to wait."

People without BLOGS have also never had their spouse say after such an incident: Politeness, the topic of today's blog post...

And since he *named the post, I'm taking that as permission.

We're not in freakin' Kansas

I wonder why my kids are afraid of everything.

See those flags and lines in the yard? They tell me where the utilities are buried. They're so Mommy doesn't get e lec tro cu ted. Okay? So don't move the flags or Mommy will die.

I promise to start a therapy trust fund as soon as possible.

I had had bright bright hopes of going to Menard's to buy lumber and brackets to build the girls a swingset that they most desperately need.

Because if Mommy doesn't get that sonofabitchingodawful thing built to give the kids a reason to go outside, they'll be on me like glue all summer.

Here's Kristin from Tuesday's trip to the Aquatic Center. She spent 40 minutes in the pool and about 15 minutes with Mommy on the loungers before she realized I wasn't going to entertain her.

She's just happy as can be.

So when I discovered that they would end my life if it meant they could play on a swingset - a recent development - I went all HELLS YEAH and started shopping around for a really cool playhouse-slash-slide-slash-swing contraption.

Until I saw the dollar signs. $1800 for some of them at the cheapest.

Eff that stuff.

I'm building them a 3-seater swingset with braun and sweat, and it surely won't cost me any $1800.

Mike told me to "buy a kit," not to build it.

I explained that the kit IS essentially what I'm buying. That the swingset doesn't magically appear on our lawn and set itself. I still have to build it.

All this work in the 90+ degree ACTUAL temps (I say ACTUAL because of the heat advisories with humidity... holy hell. Literally.) should help me lose a few poundage.
At the pool, I noticed that a lot of women were cuties, but most of them were wearing mumus and weird see-through tarps. I figured if they can show off their bulgy parts, I might just have to whip out "the girls" for public display.

She's hard to see, but there's one fine specimen on the far, far left side. And I totally give her props for puttin' herself out there.
I was outside again today in the blazing heat, playing in the garden, when Mike texted me from the golf course:

How you feel about taking the pork chops and kids to Delmar's

Of course I thought bitterly back to our recent Date Night - a once-in-a-lifetime-year happening - which turned into watching UFC fights at Delmar's house instead of our romantic night at home, but then I remembered that I probably had more fun with Delmar's wife than I would have with my husband passed out asleep on the couch.

Okay, sounds fun!

We ended up at another coworker's house instead, and they hijacked the neighbor's blow up waterslide. The kids had a blast.
Unfortunately, I forgot to change out of my gardening clothes, so I'm sure we all looked like a ragamuffin band once the kids were drenched, Mike was slightly drunk and sunburned, and I looked like a Proactiv "Before" picture.
I have three phone numbers from women who pounced on me at t-ball to get the kids together with them sometime, and several coworkers who I'd love to spend time with their wives, and neighbors and family and bears, oh my! Is this what life is like for people with older children? I want to do everything and nothing all at once.

At least we're starting to get more fun people in our lives. It's hard going from 0 to 3 kids in 60 seconds flat at age 24/23. So this is a nice change... GAINING a few friendships.

One of the couple's children - a 3-year-old boy - kept calling Mike Jesus because of his hair. I told Mike to be on his best behavior lest he scare the child religiously for the rest of his life.

We had fun, and stayed longer than we'd anticipated because the tornado sirens started up. We weren't too worried until we headed for our cars and saw the black, lowering clouds and hail.

Whoops.

That's about the time my sister frantically texted me to give her updates.
I sent her this photo collection.
SE:
NE:

I hope it helped.
We got home at 8-30-kinda-ish and the kids insisted on popcorn. I told them they could have popcorn before bed if they did FOUR math worksheets.
They did eight. Gladly.
These kids love learning software, learning worksheets, learning exercises...
Which makes me wonder... If my three kids can get through eight 1st grade worksheets in less than an hour, why does it take a class of 20 all day long to do just TWO Kindergarten worksheets?
Is it the class size and the lack of one-on-one attention?
Is it the inability to keep kids focused on the task at hand?
Because - going to a Catholic school - as a kid, I was scared that if I didn't do my homework or pay attention, I was going to hell.
I also thought I was going to hell for any one of the following: kissing a girl, being mean to my sister, wearing pants to church, getting the communion wafer stuck to the top of my mouth, not showering in gym class, or thinking about naughty bits. As well as failing to recognize a prepositional phrase.
So maybe we need to lower class sizes after all.
Or let God back in the classroom and scare the shit outta kids again.
I'm thinking some one-on-one attention would work for MY kids, but I'm not above using the latter. Maybe I can convince them Mike really IS Jesus.
Fear worked for the yard flags... I see endless possibilities in its application.

The punishment of the great outdoors

I'm typing this blog post completely with my phone, simply because my children have hijacked the computer to play Wonder Pets. I apologize in advance for all the auto-corrections. Like when I say anal and my phone chooses the more normal analysis.
We went to the pool yesterday. Just curious for all my parent friends out there: do you find that your kids automatically attract the bullies? Alison wasn't having any.of that shit, but kristin was getting manhandled up the stairs to the water slide. Another mom came over and lit into him, and I thought, 'it's about time you chew your kid's ass for ramming into the other kids as they go down the slide.' Then I realized he WASN'T HER KID. And I was all 'why didn't *I* think of that?'
A lifeguard had several chats with him over the course of 3 minutes, but before he had to yank the kid from his precious slide for hitting kids with his goggles, his sister came over to fetch him.
On a more positive note, our girls had a blast. I'm glad it only cost the five of us $21 to get in because kristin was over the whole water thing after 40 minutes.
I was forcing her to go down slides.
As we left and the pool closed down, she and Emma decided they were having too much fun to leave.
And this is why I drink.
There were so many cute kids running around, I felt like I was in a Gymboree ad. (Regardless of Mr. goggle Ornery Pants on the slide, the majority of the kids were silly, normal, and completely free of the asshole gene.)I would like to note that auto-correct has learned that I use swear words enough not to try and replace them anymore.
I love that my children are Mike's kids. I didn't use an ounce of sunscreen on them and they're slightly tan today. If that had been me as a kid, I would have been red as a monkey's ass.
We've got s heat advisory today but I think we're going to head out for as long as these kids can stand it. I'm bribing them with s gigantic container of sidewalk chalk.
Emma still can't understand why we can't stay inside and do Artsy Craftsy time.
Is it any wonder that I'm.caving in and building them a swingset this week?

Titillating Tuesday: Pool Day!

In a plot twist which is sure to reveal my lack of mental soundness, I have scheduled, nay insisted that we go to the pool today.

If you happen to be out on the town, look for the only adult to be fully clothed and wearing a Phantom-of-the-Opera-esque mask.

---

This is a special message to my neighbors:

You may have heard some children screaming this evening.

I can explain.

We're having a bit of a communication/separation issue in our home.

The kids feel the need to keep tabs on me - they think I'm going to run away (which tells me my kids are more in-tuned to my mental well being than I thought) - and I'm having a hard time communicating to them that I'm not leaving. Mostly because it's still illegal to leave them alone.

This means they come outside to check on my construction progress every 5 minutes.

Why not just let them go outside and play? you might ask. Great question.

I do. And then they run off to the neighbors' house to beg for snacks out of their pantry. Or they whine to me - as I've got sweat running down every orifice in the World's Least Sexy Way - that they need food, even if they've literally JUST EATEN. Because everything revolves around food.

Then they go in the house. And out of the house. And in. And out. And they run to tell me that so-and-so has let the cat out for the umpteenth time in the last 20 minutes. And I sigh and hunt down our not-outside cat who is just as obsessed with killing birds as the girls are with food.

So I had had a revelation tonight. I told them if they didn't stop letting the cat out, they'd have to go to their room while I worked.

Out I went to the garage. Out came the kids and the cat.

I followed through but told them I was locking their door shut. (Something I can't do, but I held it shut for about 15 seconds.)

Which would explain the screaming.

Alison had the most god aweful noise coming out of her in the moment it took to realize her door wouldn't open. Sobbing. WAILING. It doesn't even describe it. She pulled on the door for about 5 seconds, then through her screams I heard her say, Kuh-h-h-hri-ri-sssstin!!! I *ahhhh* have *ahhhhhh* an idea... and the sound of her blinds raising and her little fists banging on her window.

At that moment, all of the speeches I'd given them of what to do in a fire came crashing down.

Bang on the window.

Keep yelling and banging.

And if you have to get out, take a toy and smash it open.

I opened the door at the 15 second mark and held back my laughter at the thought of my daughter going from zero to insane in less than 2 seconds. I pulled her back from the window and hugged her sad little face.

I have no idea what happened to her, but she hates the idea of being left alone. Nothing happened, it's as if she just realized that people can die and leave forever, so she wants to keep tabs on me.

Desperately.

---

In case you're keeping score, it is 4 AM. (And a-thank-you for noticing.)

I had texted Mike after he left, asking what I would get if I had both the shelves built and the house clean.

His response: Something.

I told him he really knows how to set a low bar.

Regardless, I've decided to find out if he really is bringing something home for me.

Besides the obvious jokes of: a weiner in my ear or all the other things a 13-year-old boy might say. Because I married a husband who is perpetually 13. And likes to pretend his body parts can change size as if they were props on Alice In Wonderland.

I set my alarm for 2:30.

Obviously I just woke up.

Time to get cleaning!

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Face-melting fun

The girls had the final t-ball game this past Saturday.

The opposing team decided that any kids who got "out" would have to leave the field - something that we hadn't done before.

Of course, this meant MY children saw first base and the dugout for most of the game.

After Emma nearly shed a few tears the first time she was escorted from 1st base, the girls still managed to have fun. They had a few good stops on the field and a couple of throws that stayed in the air for a full second.

(Nothing like Alison's 1st base play on Friday when she caught the ball... with her shirt. It went IN the armpit, AROUND her body, and was finally fished OUT the back by a fellow teammate.)

I noticed that the other team ALSO had a full bleacher section and then some. They cheered every player. They cheered every play.

Our team?

Not as much.

Apparently we have the team of parents who wanted to pay the $25 for 5 weekly 1-hour babysitting sessions and couldn't be bothered with cheering for anyone but their own kid.

So I wouldn't be "that annoying mom who cheers for everyone," I stood alone on the edge of the dugout so I could be "that annoying mom who thinks she's a coach."

Let's just say the word fuckers was being rammed into my brain-to-speech filters every few seconds in between cheering Go, Kale! Go, Ben! Go, Stinky Monkey!!! (That last one was for my child, of course.)

Just to see what would happen, I let my girls hit the ball and trot toward first base... to a resounding DEAD SILENCE from the crowd. Fuckers.

The girls loved t-ball so much that they want to move immediately into soccer.

Andamommy'ssphinctersays What???

I'm not ready for another sport. I'm seeing more and more of the benefits of staying home this summer. I'd much rather spend a week camping than an hour in the rain, discovering which kids have natural talent and which parents have way too much "enthusiasm" about their child's participation in sports.

To add to the fun of our thus-far Summer Vacation, my children spent an hour NOT making their bed yesterday, so I filled FIVE GARBAGE BAGS with the toys that littered their floor. JUST the ones on the floor.

They cried and cried, mostly Alison cried, over drumsticks and art projects going in the trash.

I had had enough.

As a bonus to making it through the week of t-ball games and room cleanings, my neighbor invited me with to watch her husband's death metal bands. I think that's what people still call it, but I'm not socially in-tuned enough to be sure.

They promised to melt my face off, which was an added incentive.

(I was sad to discover this morning that I still had my lumpy, swollen face intact.)

(Cami's, on the other hand, started suffering the effects immediately.)

It was a lot of fun and not nearly as loud as I expected.

I told my sister I'm either going to leave the bar GrrrrrANGRY and ready to beat someone's head in or extremely relaxed.

In the end, I felt refreshed and capable of dealing with my children again.

I was also happy to report that I was not the only person in attendance in desperate need of some Spanx and a facial.

And why did that sound dirty?

We listened to Cory's band Pullchain, then a band called Sorvara,

and finally Cory's second band Revive the Fallen.

They do a theme every week.

One week was Nerds.

Last week was Cowboys.

This week? 80s.

While the mullets and bandanas and torn jeans were hawt, the best moment was when Cory realized an extremely intoxicated older woman had drunkenly danced/wandered - once again - onto stage with the band. He began his death metal singing into her face.

Dear Jesus, please never let me be that person. I'll be anyone else, just not that person. Thank you.

Biopsies: Add to my list of Things I Wish I Could Do Myself

My sister texted me last night. Or should I say: this morning. At 3:30.

Omg there's a bat in my house

I locked myself in the bedroom and am letting the kitties have at it!

I can't hear them running around anymore so maybe they got it!

I told her they were probably winded - they're fat cats - and sitting to watch it fly around her house.

To which she replied a calm AHHHHhhHhhh

Mike asked me why my phone was going off over and over and over again. Is your phone updating?

Yep, honey... updates. Go back to sleep, sweetie (as I chuckle at the thought of my sister hiding from a flying rodent)...

I had nightmares for the rest of the morning that her cats became infected with Rabies.

To add to the excitement, I found a 1" lump in my neck before bed.

I'm about to school y'all, so hold on to your britches.

See the region marked "sub-maxillary"? And the one next to it with the number 5 ("sub-mental")? At the anterior (toward the chin) of those sections and on my left side is where the lump is. And it's not hiding. It's a hard, round BULGE.

Anything larger than 1.5 cm is treated suspiciously and quickly. From palpating, mine seems to be about 2-2.5 cm.

So there's that little problem that I have to deal with now, on top of my rotting flesh (I had a bad makeup reaction that looks suspiciously like lepresy).

I really, really, really hate the idea of a needle going into my neck. Almost as bad as the thought of someone slicing their Achilles tendon. Necks and stretchy things should be left alone at all costs. I'm contemplating letting it marinate a while to see if it grows or goes away.

My favorite moment of the day? When the receptionist at the doctor's office told me I needed two appointments: ONE to make sure that there's a lump in my neck at all. Because I might not know what a lump is. TWO to do the biopsy to find out if it's an enlarged lymph node (and WHY it's enlarged) or a foreign growth.

I don't know about you, but I'd love to spend my afternoons driving 60 miles in a Suburban needlessly at $3.80/gallon.

If this is any indication how my summer is gonna be, I want to go back to Winter.

Since that's not possible, I need to get my ass outside and finish those shelves.

A Wednesday wrap-up

Just a few random conversations for your Wednesday:

---

Me: Emma, quit picking in your nostril.

Emma: I'm NOT picking it, I'm CLEANING IT OUT.

---

Neighbor who walks his dog past my house every day (and tells me I work too hard... every day): THERE'S my yard slave, workin' away!

Me: Yep. Trying to get rid of this dirt! Mike comes home every day and points, 'Ya know, there's a DIRT PILE over there...'

Neighbor: He harasses you, huh? Well, you know what they say: A man's work is sun-to-sun. A woman's work is never done.

---

Emma, making loud noises in the back of the car.

Me: If you guys want ice cream when we're done, you'd better chill out.

Emma: YOU chill out. (long pause) Or not. If you don't wanna.