What HE said

"Mom, you're awesome!"

"I am?"

"Yea. You bought the two best deserts for my lunch box in the whole world!"

Brett Favre Rocks

He's Got a Way with the Ladies

It's always so nice when Mom comes to help me and keep me company when Charlie is out of town. I can't say it enough times. In my next life I'm gonna marry a Sagittarius. Well, as long as the rules of the Sagittarius don't apply to me. Okay, in my next life I want to be a man and, oh hell. What I'm trying to say is that it's really nice for somebody else to be in charge. I hate being in charge. I thought being a Mom was all about being patient and kind and mushy and smushy and not at all about being in charge of anything. When she's here, everybody stands up a little bit straighter and wipes their bottom a little more carefully, you know what I'm saying? So even though she's been up on a ladder as much as the guy I paid ten thousand dollars to paint my house this week, she's still down in the trenches telling the kids what to do. She says all the same things I normally say, but she says it about thirty minutes before I do and with more authority. They mind her better because nobody want to see Nana with her mad face. All except John, he makes me feel normal because he gives her the same amount of trouble as he gives me.



So last Tuesday, everybody was fed, showered, in their pajamas and we settled in to the enormous new sectional sofa to watch American Idol. I'm sitting in one corner where it reclines and Nana is sitting across the way, where the other piece reclines and she's flanked on each side with Peach and Ace curled up under each arm. We're watching the show when I look over at some commotion and Ace is giving Mom a pat down. He looks like he's searching for weapons, right around the boobage area. I started laughing so hard I almost fell off the couch, she waved him off but not before he'd gotten to second base. There's never a dull moment when she's here and there is ALWAYS Lot's of laughs.



Thanks Mom.

Thanks Ace.

Paint, Part II or The School Nurse Calls Again

So we took the dented can of paint in and commenced to painting the Potty/Shower/Tub room. Mom wants the tall ladder. The eight foot industrial size ladder. So we have to maneuver it down the hall, into the first part of the bathroom, then try to turn it, duck under the next doorway, up and over. We put part of it in the tub, part of it in the three foot space that remains. She starts to cut in because our (her) original idea is to paint the ceiling white and stripe the bathroom incorporating some of the old color. But I chose rough texture and had the painters paint the ceilings the same color as the walls, which made it a no-go for cutting in with a brush. So the backup plan is to just paint the entire room and we'll think about stripes latter. Up the ladder for cut in, down the ladder to move it. Wrangle the ladder in the five foot square space. Up the ladder, hang over backward because you're too close to the ceiling at the wrong angle. Trade. Up the ladder with the roller. Down the ladder to get more paint. On and on etc.

Although I have been working out with Bob Harper of the Biggest Loser, Bob has not prepared me for painting. We finish up the first coat of paint around the time the kids roll up on the bus. (Have I sung you the praises of The Bus?) Mom is completely wiped out, she likes to start her projects when the sun breaks and end around noon. Then the afternoon kid shift begins and we have aspirin for dinner.

The next day get the kids off to school and start second coating the Tub room. Fairly quickly we then move on to the sink area. Much easier square room, with the expanse of the counter to stand on which makes it easier for two people to work at the same time. We get the room done with it's first coat and take a break around 10:30 or 11:00. Just as we settle in to our chairs, my phone rings. It's John. He forgot to have me sign his exemption form for finals, which are Thursday and Friday, and it has to be turned in today, could I please come to the office and sign it for him? Sure, not a problem we're on break. So Mom and I hop in the car, run to the high school and sign his paper. We take this opportunity to run by her house to pick up some wire to hang a mirror with and head back to my house. We determine that the paint is dry enough to start the second coat. We get done around one o'clock and as I'm cleaning up and Mom's putting on the final touches, my phone rings. It's the school nurse from the elementary. "Mrs.? One of the children in Peach's class's Mom called to let us know that they have lice. We did a check of all the kids in the class and three of them have lice. Peach has eggs, but no bugs."

And the hits just keep on coming. I say "Could you please check Ace for me before I have to run to Walmart for shampoo and new pillows?" She was kind enough to overlook my previous bad attitude and called me back to let me know Ace was clear. So after I stripped her bed and started scalding everything I could get my hands on, I threw on my glasses-fake nose-and mustache disguise and head over to the Walmart for lice shampoo. Got home put the scalded sheets in the dryer and start scalding the comforter, spray her bed. And that's when the scope of this job hits me. This isn't like the time I joined that gym when John was a baby and after one day in the daycare he got lice. He had hardly any hair, he slept in his little crib, sheets some clothes, bing-bang-boom. No. She's eight. She has two drawers full of hair accessories, one hundred and thirty stuffed animals which rotate in and out of her bed on a constant basis. It's winter and we've kept it so cold that everyone is walking around with a fleece throw at all times, all of which are the same color. AND I CAN'T QUIT ITCHING!!! They hop off the bus as I'm putting things in the washer, so I bring her immediately in and wash her hair with the medicine. When we're all done I sit her down and start to comb through her hair with the nit comb. I get all the way through her hair and have yet to find one. John's morbid curiosity gets the better of him and he picks up a comb and starts searching, "Here's one. Oh, here's one. Here's another one."
I can't see any of them, it's like he's puttin' one over on me.
"Where?"
"Right here. See."
"NO."
"Right here."
"I don't see anything."
"Mom, go get your reading glasses."
Her hair is so fine, that the nit comb doesn't work, we have to spot them then use our fingernails to pull them off the hair.

Grossed out yet? Don't itch your head. I double dog dare you.

So we stood like monkeys going through her head for the better part of an hour. And I say "Now Peach, tomorrow when you go to school, I don't want you talking to the other kids about lice okay?" "Why." "It's just not a good idea." "Well what if somebody else says they have lice, can I tell them?" "Well, I'd rather you wouldn't." "Why?" "Because when Mommy's find out about lice it makes us nervous." "But if somebody asks me if I have it, I'll just say that I didn't have any bugs, I just have eggs." "Oooo, I wish you wouldn't." "Why?" "I just don't want you to talk about it okay?" "But what if somebody else is talking about it?" "Just don't okay?" "Why?" "Cause I said so, K?" "But why?" Of course I haven't started dinner. I was planning to have the spaghetti sauce all done and in the crock pot so that all I had to do was the noodles, but that plan fell in the toilet somewhere around 10:30. I throw everything I can think of that might have touched her head and is not washable, into plastic bags and hide them in the closet for the next month. Then I head to the kitchen and start dinner, I pass Mom in the hall and say, "If I don't get to sit down soon, I'm gonna start crying." We eat dinner, I put Peaches bed back together then beg John to look through my hair because I CAN FEEL THEM CRAWLING ALL OVER THE PLACE I'M INFESTED!!!! "No, Mom. I'm SURE. You just need to use my Head and Shoulders, you've got some dandruff." "But it HAS to be bugs, I CAN FEEL THEM CRAWLING!" "Chill Mom. I promise there's no bugs."

The next day when Peach got home I asked, "So did you say anything about lice at school today." and she gave me this huge grin that said "Silly Mommy, of course I talked about lice today. Did you really think that I could go to school and NOT talk about lice?" A grin that said, "I did. But you can't blame me right?" "Oh P. Who did you talk to?" She discussed it with at least two boys that I know of, one of which she swears said he had lice first. *sigh*



It's a week later and no amount of Head and Shoulders and Lice shampoo can make me stop itching. Yesterday Mom and I striped the bathroom and she is in there right now, touching up all the places where the paint bled through under the tape. I'd show you a picture, but my USB port... yeah.

Why Painters Charge SO Much

Boy, what a week we have had! Charlie was in Oklahoma last week (again this week), and Nana's been here crackin' the whip and takin' names! I have some pics and a video for you but guess what? My USB ports - she no worky.

So Day one last week, we decided to repaint the kids bathroom. It's really dark in there. Yes, the builder was right and I was wrong. It's a little like being in a cave. (This is where I would insert the first pic. Can I tell you how frustrating it is when things don't work and you can't figure out why? I blame Microsoft.) So we looked over some paint chips. I'm looking for something with a gold undertone instead of the Everyday Taupe I've got everywhere in the entire house. So we picked Cocoa Creamy for the sink area, and Whipped Cream Topping for the Tub/Shower/Toilet area. Which doesn't sound all that gold toned now that I see it on paper. Once we got it on the walls, it's basically white and off-white. But getting it on the walls...that's where my story begins.

We decide to go to the local hardware store where the trade-off is the paint costing thirty bucks a can, versus driving all the way to Lowe's and using a half a tank of gas or better. So we go get the paint, but go over to Walmart for our other supplies so we don't buy seven dollar a roll tape. We drive back home and I open up the passenger side door and BOOM! the can of Whipped Cream Topping falls out, hits the driveway and explodes everywhere. My stomach cramped up immediately. First Charlie's gonna give me hell for getting paint on the driveway. I say "CHARLIE'S GONNA KILL ME!", which really doesn't mean he's gonna kill me, or even so much that he'll be mad at me. What I mean to say is "Charlie's gonna be really irritated that I got paint on the driveway and he's never gonna let me hear the end of it for the rest of my life.". He's gonna say "Why did you have the paint stacked in the back seat? Why didn't you put it the back." Which brings up point number two, and that is, that I couldn't put the paint in the back because it was full of the recycles. Recycles that I haven't taken to the Reclamation station since before Thanksgiving because the Reclamation Stations is only open on Thursday, Friday and every third Saturday of the vernal equinox unless such time as it might be raining or a First Monday or holidays or Your Momma.... Charlie hates that I try to recycle all the paper and cardboard because it takes up a huge space in the garage, it's a pain in the butt and I never get it taken. Every time I say "Well take it this Saturday! You and me! It'll be a blast!", and then we haul it over there and sure enough it's the third Saturday of the Fingernail Moon and it's closed. So of course, THIS last Saturday we went to take it, (he and I because, you know, I wanted to save it till Saturday, when he could go with me because it's gonna be SO much fun, don't you know.) And we pulled up and the gate was closed and I thought he was gonna turn purple and have a stroke right in front of the Reclamation Center. He said "That's it! I'm throwing this stuff out right here and they can pick it up when they get here!" and I said "NO! You can't do that! If it gets wet it's no good! They can't use it if it gets wet." and he says "Bullshit! What's all that right out there?" And sure enough back behind the fence there are these huge bales of cardboard littered all over the grounds, but I persisted. "I just know when I went the last time he asked me if any of it had gotten wet because they couldn't use it if it got wet." to which he just stared at me so I said "Okay. I don't care. Dump it out here if you want to." to which he said "No, I don't want to dump it out if your gonna be mad at me for the rest of the weekend." Which settled the matter, because we're passive aggressive like that.

SO THE REASON I DUMPED PAINT ALL OVER THE DRIVEWAY AND WASTED THIRTY DOLLARS WAS BECAUSE I DIDN'T LET HIM DUMP THE RECYCLES ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SATURDAY.

I know, I'll never hear the end of it. So Mom and I sprang into action, like only the keystone cops could. I found a plastic cup and started scraping paint and putting it back in the bucket. She ran inside and got me two paper plates to do the job more efficiently, then she went and got the little broom. I finished putting back all but about two inches of the paint back in the bucket and go and grab the nearest hose while she moves the truck. I have to take off the hose cover, screw on the hose only to find that at full blast, all I'm going to get is a trickle of water and chunks of ice. I go to the next hose bib looking for the power sprayer, not there. I go around the house to the next one, not there. I go around to the fourth one, not there. I have now run a full circle completely around the house to find the sprayer at the last hose location. I come around to find that although the plan was to shoot the paint straight off the driveway onto the grass, there's not enough pressure so although Mom is trying, the water/paint is running all the way back down the driveway. I turn off the water, put on the sprayer, give it back to Mom, run in the house and fill two two quart pitchers with hot water and soap. I run back out and dump this on the paint, run back in the garage and get the industrial size broom and start scrubbing. This went on for about 20 minutes in the freezing cold weather till I finally decided you wouldn't "technically" be able to see that I spilled paint on the driveway.

Then we still had to go in and paint because the can was dented and we couldn't put the lid back on.

Good times.

Try as I might...

Hello, cubesteak, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
With lot's of gravy.

Dear Me, Please Open Late September 2010

I know what you're wondering and so I'm taking the opportunity to answer.

Yes. Yes it DOES get cold here. There is a reason you've got a couple of sweaters in your closet to go along with that ridiculous sweatshirt you like to wear. In fact I'd appreciate it if you would go and buy us some more warm things to wear. Like socks, socks would be nice. It's 23 degrees outside today and the wind is howling. Howling. And I know you don't remember it today, but the socks in the sock box are not adequate. Maybe something in a nice Hiking Boot sock. Better yet, maybe they're selling sock warmers over in the hunting isle at Walmart. Get them now, because they won't have any when it's 23 degrees outside and the wind is howling. And yes, Mom did buy us the fuzzy boots for the trip to Colorado last March, but I'm thinking about putting them on right now just to wear around the house. Don't get rid of the long pajamas, I know right now they're taking up valuable shelf space and it seems like you should take them to Goodwill to make room for more tank tops, but don't do it.

Love,
Me

P.S. Make sure the kids are still riding the bus. Despite what they might say, the bus rocks!

Channeling Eric Garcia

Day three of getting it together in the diet and exercise department. Remember when I had a trainer? I know. Those were the days. I found some old photos in the closet the other day and called John in to look, because he had some WOW pictures of what he looked like just two or three years ago. The kid's taller than his dad now, it's amazing. In one of the pictures of Melee's birthday party, right before we moved from Houston, he said "Wow Mom. Look at you!" "I know", I said, "wasn't it great?" He said, "I don't even remember you looking like that." "I know, it's sad isn't it." Sob. It makes me sad. I had it. I had it for a short moment of time. I didn't even have it long enough to enjoy the fact that I had it. And then we moved to this damned place and I've been stuffing my feelings with food ever since. I wasn't stuffing them while we were building the house. That was pure fun! I loved every minute of it, but I did take a major vacation in the intensity of my workouts. See the thing of it is, I haven't stopped exercising. I don't mind the exercise, but it's just not as fun anymore.



So I'm trying to channel my inner Eric Garcia. I've started my food journal again. And I'm gonna give myself smiley faces when I do good, and sad faces when I don't eat enough protein. And I'm working out with Bob, from The Biggest Loser, he's been fun. I like his sense of humor. I think Jillian may be week 2 and I'm kinda scared of what she's gonna say, if I were on the ranch I'm tough enough to take what she dishes out, but I don't think she'll be an effective bully on DVD. I'm gonna try to stay on the positive side, cause that's what Eric would do.

OM

One of the reasons I haven't blogged as much over the last year or so is that I have a bad attitude. I keep thinking I'm going to wait it out. I just need to get adjusted to this new place, I keep telling myself. Just give it a little more time, I think, eventually I'm gonna find my spot in this weird new universe. But the longer time goes on, the more disgruntled I seem to get. I keep having these little "episodes", that yes, happen to coincide with a particular time in a woman's cycle. It feels like PMS on steroids. I admit I used to get a little grouchy every 30 days or so, but this is different, this is much bigger. And the hard thing, is that I don't see it when it shows up, it takes me a while to realize what's going on. There have been several occasions now, that have been big enough that even Charlie knows what's going on and sometimes before me.

Last month something set me off and after the second day of fuming around the house I finally had my "aha" moment and texted Charlie "Hey, do you think it's time for the craziness again?" He texted back and said "The unwritten rule in our family is that if Momma won't let Ace sit in her lap, she's gonna blow." The night before Ace had been trying to sit in the rocker with me and I kept deflecting him and finally turned to him and said "Momma needs some space right now." Not one of my proudest mothering moments. Not that there's anything wrong with a little space...and that was one of the milder episodes. There was "The Honking Bastard", and "The Great Beenie Weenie Incident" and today. I'm naming today "Bullshit Day."

Today is the first day that the kids are riding the bus home. Originally, I couldn't see putting Ace on the bus, but after four months of sitting in carpool lanes for a total of almost two hours a day, I decided (with a little nudge from "The Honking Bastard"), that maybe I could afford to let go a little. Perhaps this would give me some peace, which I'm desperately looking for. The bus beats us home everyday. I tried to warm everyone (and by everyone, I mean John) up to the idea and in one of his moments of weakness, when he was not outright screaming protest, I put the plan in place. It would start the week after Christmas break. I called the bus barn yesterday and made the arrangements. The Little's are put on the bus by teachers, the Jr. High and High School crowd are on there own. So the arrangements were made, and of course Ace and Peach are just chomping at the bit, they can't believe I have finally relented and am allowing them to ride the "magical" school bus!

So the first thing to go wrong was a note from the nurse in Peach's bag yesterday. I can't say Peach is a hypocondriac, but she does cry wolf from time to time. And there's something about this school, if they even pretend to have a fever, they call you immediately and want you to pick them up. This has happened at least two times this year. Once, they took her temperature when she came in from recess saying that she didn't feel very good. OF COURSE SHE DIDN'T FEEL GOOD, SHE WAS RUNNING AROUND IN 100 DEGREE HEAT!!!! THUS THE TEMPERATURE!!!! So then I have to pick her up, she comes home and within 10 minutes she miraculously feels better and wants to play and have my undivided attention which I am in no way prepared to give, because you just faked your way out of school and I can't send you to school tomorrow because you have to be "fever-free" for twenty-four hours before returning to school! Which means I get to replay this whole scenario of you wanting to play and watch t.v. and play computer and Momma, Momma, Momma ahhhhhhh!!! (see, this is part of the monthly thing that has me screaming inside my head with no way to turn it off) Ahem. So, as I was saying, there was a note in the bag from the nurse stating that she came to the office complaining of a sore throat with a temperature of 98 (Thank the lord it hadn't been 99 or she would have called my ass) and by the way, her tonsils looked very swollen and red. (And of course my response was required)

My response: "Wonk, wonk lady. Her brothers have all been sick with a sore throat and a cough, she's third in line, destined to have it. All my kids have large tonsils and adenoids, which make them terrific snorers in case you were wondering. No one has had a fever. I repeat no one. Please file my response where the sun don't shine. Sincerely, Her Loving Mother.

I waxed PC philosophical with her, stuck my response in the backpack. And don't get me wrong, I did my due diligence, and not even with any attitude. Was she feeling okay? Let me take your temperature again. Does your throat hurt now? Then this morning, How you feeling this morning? Is your throat hurting? Felt her head the whole nine yards. Everything was sunny side up and a Go for project Bus Ride. After I dropped them off at school I went over to Mom's (just a couple of blocks down from the elementary) and chatted with her and my Aunt and arranging for backup if the Big's miss the bus today. We had some hot chocolate, discussed day two of the "healthy eating plan" (hot chocolate not-withstanding) and I headed home to do whatever it is I do to pass the hours of the day. I had not been inside my house two minutes when the phone rang, "Mrs.? Peach's here in the office and she's got a temperature of 100.1 and we need you to come pick her up."

Yeah. I'll let you sit on that for a minute.

She lit the fuse. They wound me up yesterday and today that bitch called and lit the fuse. I'm not sure what I said, I was polite but evidently my voice was strained. I asked whether or not they could get a note to Ace's teacher as THIS WAS THE FIRST DAY THAT THEY WERE GOING TO RIDE THE BUS HOME TOGETHER AND NOW HIS SISTER WON'T BE ON THE BUS WITH HIM, COULD THEY? COULD THEY GET A NOTE DOWN THERE?????? I drove angry to the elementary school, God forbid they could have called me when I was two blocks away at my Mother's house. NOOO they had to wait till I got ALL the way back home! And don't think Charlie didn't get an ear full. Just because you're AWOL on you way to Oklahoma doesn't mean you don't get to hear a play by play of how shitty my day is and how NOW THE PRECIOUS HAS TO RIDE THE BUS HOME WITHOUT HIS SISTER!!!!! I went into the office to pick her up and no one said a word. No "Hello", no "Sorry to hear she's not feeling well.", no "If it were up to me we'd send her back to class, but that pesky ole thermometer...yuck, yuck, yuck" just silence. I signed the notebook and said "Were ya'll able to get a note to Ace's teacher so that he knows he has to ride the bus by himself?" and she says, "I don't know, did you ask whoever called you?" I am using every muscle in my entire body, every ounce of restraint I can muster not to slide over the counter and put my hands around her neck and squeeze until she can't speak any more. I said "Yes." and she turns to the other lady who's standing right there and asks if "blah blah blah?" and "Yes blah, blah blah." and I think I said "Thank you." but maybe I didn't, and walked Peach out to the car.

I've dressed her down accordingly. We had this discussion the last time she came home crying wolf. She has no temperature and as soon as we walked in the door she said "I'm hungry, can I have something to eat?" She's asked to play on the computer, she's asked to watch t.v. upstairs, she's asked me the answer to every other problem on the 14 pages of homework she brought home.

I was so upset at the elementary school staff's lack of any human decency to my concern about the Precious that I called the Jr. High instead and said "Could I get a note to my son Melee'? Today is the first day that my kids are riding the bus home and I had to go pick up his little sister at the elementary because she's sick and I'm afraid he might be worried when she's not on the bus." "Oh! Certainly!" She said, with just the right amount of care and compassion. She's the only reason I'm not putting a for sale sign out in my front yard today.