Saturday, September 13, 2014

Queen Bed Frame Assembly - Intelligence and Alcohol Not Included

I hate this. Mentally defeated by a three piece bed frame. The simplest of household assembly tasks. The bunny slope of DIY projects has K-O'd my self-reliance, leaving it crumpled in a ball of humiliation.

It's not like I was trying to perform my own angioplasty or fold a fitted sheet. I've learned not to tackle big stuff. This is a straightforward bed frame, one that didn't come with instructions because the manufacturers assumed that even a developmentally delayed chimpanzee could figure it out.

But I couldn't.

I wanted James to return from his business trip and be all impressed that I'd put it together by myself. He'd tell me how smart and resourceful I am and I'd bask in his approval. Now he's going to come home and give me the same look he gives Katie when she leaves a dead chipmunk on the door step. The look that says "I appreciate what you were trying to do, but now this 10 minute job is going to take two hours and a trip to Home Depot just to sort out your mess. Thanks, I guess."

Years ago, when I'd fail at a household project, I'd just go out and buy a box of pinot grigio to drink away my feelings of stupidity, or exchange them for a different variety.Wine would make it better. The act of consuming it from a bulk-sized cardboard container with a spout made me feel economical and environmentally conscious. The box would eventually go into recycling, which was my way of helping save the world.

James would come in, tired and jet-lagged, from Seattle or Spokane or Walla Walla to find me stumbling among dozens of ceiling fan parts and singing old REM songs.

"What's going on here?" he'd ask hesitantly.

"I'm saving the world," I'd reply matter-of-factly.

I don't do that anymore, though. I mean, there just comes a time in life when you decide to choose sobriety... and oscillating table fans.

And then there was the time I hung up our new cypress porch swing using ornamental plant basket chain. (Who'd have thought that it comes in different grades? I mean, chain is chain.) Satisfied with a job well done, I proudly sat down to rock a few minutes.

It took three microseconds for the thin metal links to admit defeat. I didn't land gracefully.

I could share a few more stories along the same lines, but I won't. It's time to end this "Poor me, I'm a moron" pity party and go back upstairs for Round Two of Angela vs. Bed Frame.

Cut me and squirt water in my mouth. I'm going back in.

Friday, September 5, 2014

No Escape from My Husband's Yelling and the Condemnation of My Inner Critic

In addition to the absence of storage space and our 10 foot high bedroom window that magnifies the sun's light and heat by 700-percent, I'm discovering that this house has minimal insulation... specifically the noise reducing kind.

Until living here, I'd never realized that one of my husband's major job functions is to lead painfully long conference calls with large groups of nearly deaf coworkers and clients. I can't figure out if they're actually hearing impaired or if their offices are located in underground caves with 1930's telephone wiring. Or quite possibly they're all ADHD second graders who had Kool-Aid and Pixie Sticks for breakfast.

Whatever the case may be, from 10 am to noon every day, there is no escaping the discord of James' overly enunciated barks into the phone, each of which he has to slowly repeat at least thrice. His tone resonates agitation covered by a flimsy mask of politeness. Even with all doors closed, it's like enduring two hours of Charlie Brown's teacher on full blast.

When the call finally ends, James' facial expression reminds me of Lloyd Bridges in the movie Airplane, lamenting "Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue."

JAMES: "Honey, before you hit 'publish,' you might want to add some factual information about who's the loudest around here. That being you."

ME: "Yes, but that doesn't make for good reading."

Ordinarily I'd find his calls more amusing than agitating, except for the fact that I'm trying to write in the next room. A book, actually. Yep, I said a book. A real book. Not a photo collage book I'll have printed at CVS for my in-laws' Christmas present. It's a humorous parents' guide to the world of travel baseball. Please, no one steal my idea because I score disconcertingly high in vengeance on personality tests.

Ever since the kids went back to school on Tuesday, I've been working on this book project for two hours each morning. And by working I mean staring at a blank computer screen, questioning my self worth and recalling every project I've started but failed to finish since childhood. As soon as it's time to write, I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to clean out the garage. But I force myself to sit here and at least try to generate one sentence worth keeping. After a couple of false starts, I notice the sweater of dust on my living room ceiling fan. I should really get up and take care of that. But I resist the distraction and come up with what I consider a decent paragraph. Upon reading it a second time, the words sound forced and cliche.

I begin to question what business I have trying to be a writer anyway, I'm just wasting time on a project that'll never come to fruition. The word fruition reminds me that we're out of strawberries. And dog food. And I haven't planned dinner yet. And Andrew's baseball pants need to be washed before tomorrow. How can I sit here wiling away the hours when there are important chores to be done?

But, what was that? Washing baseball pants. With Iron Out, the miracle cleaner, even though it's probably alters your DNA. That's something a new baseball parent would need to know. I should write that down before the condemning voices in my head return from their coffee break.

A quick side note, the boys have had a good week in their new schools so far. Thanks so much for all the supportive calls, texts and FB messages. Here's what they had to say after day one.

ANDREW: "We learned greetings in Spanish today."

ME: "Like what?"

ANDREW: "Aloha."

JACK: "I met this kid named Silas in our class. He's very undomesticated."

ME: "You mean he's wild?"

JACK: "Yes, but I'm trying to use vocabulary words."

Alright, back to the book. What was I saying about Iron Out?

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

VA Adventures: First Day of School Blues

Today is the first day of eighth grade for Andrew and third grade for Jack. I’ve been preparing for weeks. Mainly by worrying about them. The schools up here are big and unfamiliar. There’s no one to watch out for my babies if they get lost or forget their lunch money.

I especially miss Dublin today. It fit us well, like a favorite pair of comfy sweats. Midlothian, by comparison, is a stiff, new pair of jeans I bought planning to lose five pounds. It’ll be great…one day.

At 6:22, I hear Andrew stirring around downstairs. By the time I stumble into the kitchen, 15 minutes later, he’s eaten breakfast, made his lunch and is installing new gutters on the outside of the house. I’ve never met a kid so naturally responsible. Where did he come from?

7:00 and Jack is still comatose. Not even a James and Katie wrestling match can rouse him. 

His first words are “I’m going to wear turquoise high socks pulled up to my knees just to embarrass Andrew.” 
Usually upon waking, one might think about breakfast or using the bathroom. Jack, however, is mission focused. And every day that mission is to annoy his older brother. He has a full arsenal of physical and emotional tools for the job.

“One picture this year. That’s all you get,” Andrew warns as I click photos heedlessly.

“I’ll take more at the bus stop,” I say.

“You’re not following me to the bus stop.”

“Of course I am! I’ll be going right past it walking Jack to school.”

Accepting the fact that he can’t avoid me altogether, Andrew counters with a verbal restraining order. 

“Alright, but no hovering and DO NOT try to talk to me.”

I comply…sort of.

He didn’t say not to cry. And I didn’t plan to. But.... There’s nothing like exchanging pleasantries with other new moms …and suddenly, unexpectedly bursting into tears at the thought of your almost grown son, climbing the steps of a big strange bus to a big strange new school. Time is going too fast. Next week he’ll be living in another time zone, married to some hussy who wants to spend every holiday with her family.  

Although I tried to pass it off as seasonal allergies, I’m pretty sure Jason’s mom mentally labeled me as “unstable with attachment issues.”

Jack’s school is just a ten minute walk from our house on the neighborhood trail heavily traveled by dogs that had chili for dinner last night.

“It’d be bad if I walked into school with poo on my shoes,” said Jack laughing but sort of serious.

“And you tracked it through the whole school,” I added.

“Yeah, that’d make a great first impression.”

Outside Clover Hill Elementary, Jack and I stood alone among a hundred or so other parent-kid combos. It’s crazy how sometimes you can feel the loneliest when you’re completely surrounded by people. I was craving a familiar face from a Laurens County school: Mr. Locke and Tina at back car riders.Beth and Nita in the front office, my dear friend, Rachel, Jack’s teacher last year, who will undoubtedly cry when she reads this. (Sorry, Rachel.) 

Everywhere I looked were new faces with names and details yet to be filled in. I teared up again, feeling overwhelmed and needy.

Jack, meanwhile, was passively inspecting one of the 58 zippers on his new backpack until he caught a glimpse of my face.

 “Mom!!! Are you crying AGAIN? Oh my gosh, STOP IT! Just act normal!”

So I tried.

ME:  “I know, let’s play ‘first-day-of-school I Spy.’ Find a kid with new shoes.”

JACK: “All of them.”

ME:  “A kid with a cast on his arm.”

JACK: “the one standing right there.”

ME: “a kid who looks like they’d be annoying.”

JACK: “You, minus the kid part…. Can we just be quiet?”

ME: “Of course we can. That’s a great idea. Yeah, quiet is good.”

I was doing it again. That thing where I talk too much, using words like plaster to fill in the silent gaps. So we just sat on the recently painted white curb waiting for the doors to open.

8:25 finally arrived and a herd of freshly scrubbed elementary schoolers along with their paparazzi parents stampeded the hallways.  

“See ya, Mom,” Jack said casually, without concern…or a hug or a kiss.

“Uhm, bye, Honey. I love you,” I replied, still standing there hoping he’d turn around for a last wave, sort of like my dogs do when I leave the house.

Wanting to make a good impression on Mrs. Johnson, Jack’s teacher, I brought in lots of extra snacks, pens, pads and hand sanitizer, compliments of my last employer.  Heck, I even showered and put on makeup (which doesn’t always happen.) And I tried to say all the right things to make myself seem like a responsible “go-to” parent. It wasn’t until I returned home that James pointed out the powdery white ring emblazoned across my derriere. 

Guess that curb wasn’t so dry after all.

What is it that they say about first impressions?

Friday, August 29, 2014

August Funny Friday and a Tribute to My Dad

Today is August's Funny Friday, a regular feature posted on the last Friday of every month. Funny Friday is a collaborative project where one of the participants submits a photo. Then we all write five captions or thoughts inspired by it.

Links to the other bloggers' posts are below. I hope we bring a smile to your face as you start your Labor Day weekend. 

Today's photo was submitted by ME!!!!! 

1. "What the...? Linda, I thought you said we'd never see your first husband again."

2. With this new rattlesnake skin ice cream container, you'll never have to worry about someone eating your Rocky Road again. Also comes in water coral snake, cobra and python. Call within the next five minutes and we'll double your order. 

3. Sweetie, your regular lunchbox ice pack melted in the dishwasher, so I had to improvise. Try not to be alarmed when you open your lunch today. 

4. I'm trying to cut down on grocery store trips and use ingredients I have on hand. Would you believe that Pinterest doesn't have a single recipe calling for blueberries and rattlesnake? 

5. And now the story behind this photo...My dad was one of the most genuinely unique characters God ever put on this Earth. He had a trillion different interests, rescued probably a hundred stray dogs and could bring a laugh to the most sullen of people. Causing someone to scream via a good practical joke was his favorite thing in the world.

He passed away suddenly on March 8th of this year due to a weak heart and an undiagnosed blood clot. 

Two days after the funeral, we were trying to figure out what to do with ALL the food brought by friends and family. My arms loaded with three oversized Pyrex dishes, I opened the door to the storage room freezer...and almost lost my bladder control...along with the broccoli soufflĂ©, potatoes au gratin and squash casserole. 

He'd done it AGAIN! "Dang you, Robert Hall." 

I'm quite sure he had the folks in Heaven laughing heartily as they watched his daughter step unsuspectingly into his final practical joke...or at least the last one we've found. 

Happy Friday, everyone! 

Let's see what the other bloggers wrote. I'm traveling and posting from my phone again. If these don't turn into links, just copy and paste. They're guaranteed to be worth the read. 

Baking in a Tornado

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Someone Else's Genius

The Three Gerbers

On the Alberta Montana Border

Thursday, August 28, 2014

What's Your Motivation for Liking and Retweeting?

Last week, I had a mentally stirring conversation with my friend Stacy, who is also a blogger. I point this out because most of my conversations these days lack any kind of substance whatsoever.

So here's a slightly abridged and paraphrased version of the discussion.

ME: "I feel like we bloggers are a self-serving lot of brown nosing, Facebook liking and commenting, mutual admiration society."

STACY: "yeah, you know you've sold your soul to the devil when you start liking without even looking, just to suck up to the user who has a bigger following than you do."

ME: "and what's with Twitter users repeatedly retweeting ALL the posts of their newest Twitter idol? They might as well send the person a direct message saying 'hi there, my name's D and I'm a needy, opportunistic stalker. Please notice me. Follow me. Like Me!!! Please, please, PLEASE!!!!!'"

STACY: "Was I being THAT obvious?"

So that's pretty much gist of the conversation, which soon turned violent and ended with me unfriending Stacy on Facebook and her unfollowing me on Twitter. 

However, it brings up an excellent question that's just begging to be used as an essay question on sociology exams. "Why do we click like or retweet?"

A quick examination of my own Facebook behavior reveals that there are more motivations than simply "liking" the content of the post itself.

Here's a statistically semi-accurate breakdown of my latest liking activity. Feel free to judge me. But at least I'm bold enough to admit my own shallowness, neediness and passive-aggressiveness. (My goodness. That's a mess of "ness.")

56%-genuinely liked the post.

22%-would really prefer to comment, but I'm probably on my phone and don't want to type that much, so clicking "like" is better than nothing.

9%-similar to above, but the post is usually bad news or "prayers needed" and my clicking "like" doesn't mean I actually like your bad news, but at least I'm acknowledging that I read it and hope/pray for the best outcome. Facebook really needs an "acknowledge" button.

18%-offered an obligatory, appreciative like because the user who posted it often likes my posts and I want to reciprocate.

14%-didn't really have an opinion on the post, but like the person very much.

12%-thought the content was unbelievably asinine, but the user is a blogger with a tremendous fan base. And I secretly hate her because of it. Therefore I'll like everything that she posts in hopes that she'll notice me, read my writing (which is far better) and start liking and retweeting my blog posts.

8%-recently ran into the user in public, was glad to see them and therefore will click "like" the very next time they post, even if it's an emoji of smiling poo.

5%-clicked like on several posts in a row because: a) I was recently rude/unfriendly to that user
b) made a snarky comment on their last post and now I feel bad about it c) am apologizing for stealing that user's boyfriend in high school.

4%-you owe me money or need to return something I lent you and I don't want to have to come out and ask for it. So I'll just keep liking your stuff so you'll see my name and hopefully remember that $50/pair of sandals/fake ID/soldering iron/taser I loaned you. 

3%-liked a controversial news piece in hopes that it will annoy my FB friends who disagree with my political views.

And that, my friends, adds up to 129%, or something like that. So, tell me, what makes YOU click like?

Be honest.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Pitcher's Elbow: MRI's Aren't All the Same

This blog post actually contains a bit of helpful advice. No kidding.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to make a habit of it. But this is something people need to know. Because not knowing about it could result in your health insurance being cancelled. Or your arm slowly rotting off. Or both, which would equal a bad day in my book.
This is my 13-year-old son Andrew. He's a really good pitcher. And he's kind of a punk. 
Since Memorial Day weekend, Andrew's had a mysterious, on again, off again elbow infirmity. As caring, responsible, baseball parents who don’t want to be judged and talked about harshly by other baseball parents, James and I have done our best to keep Andrew’s pitching arm healthy. Ya know, no curve balls, only a limited number of pitches per game. No vigorous hand shaking, no fist fights, no arm wrestling, no rock-paper-scissors, no participating in color guard, no directing traffic, limited hitch hiking and absolutely no doing the chicken dance at wedding receptions.

In spite of our best efforts, some tendon or ligament or piston or catalytic converter is causing him occasional pain when he throws. Back in June, Dr. Stapleton (Mr. Tommy John Surgery) recommended an MRI to see exactly which piece of elbow hardware is malfunctioning and if it's still covered under the warranty. 

Elite MRI in Dublin was able to get Andrew scheduled quickly. They were super nice. Gave great service. We were very satisfied. And our insurance company approved it, (which is an important piece of this story.)

follow up appointment with Stapleton three days later

STAPLETON: "You're gonna have to get another MRI. I can't make out anything on this one."

James and I weren't happy with Stapleton. We assumed he'd forgotten his glasses and was giving us the run around, so we had a couple of doctor friends take a look at the MRI film. 

Both physicians put on their most strained faces, as if they were constipated and trying to decipher ancient code written in disappearing ink on the wall of an underwater cave. 

DOC ONE: "Well, I think that's his elbow. Or it could be the Virgin Mary or a pterodactyl. I'm not really sure."

DOC TWO: "yes, that's definitely his elbow because it's a right angle. And elbows are right angles. So, yeah, I can read it."

JAMES: "Can you see his flexor tendon? I think that's what we're looking for."

DOC ONE: "No, honestly, I can't make out any details. Elite MRI is good for getting folks in quickly and they offer great service, but their imaging magnet isn't as strong as the hospital's or the Medical Center's. Their films are usually good enough for us to work with, but they don't offer the sharp detail that you need for an elbow image."

ME: "Well crap. That's good to know."

DOC ONE: "yeah, I guess you'll need a better quality MRI."

That was two months ago. 

We're now seeing Dr. Jody Smith, an orthopedic surgeon here in Richmond.

DR SMITH: "I'm so sorry, but Cigna didn't approve another MRI. They said they already paid for one back in June."

ME: "But that one was bad. No one could read it."

DR SMITH: "I'll call Cigna myself and explain that the first one was poor quality, but I can't promise anything. Insurance companies can be tough to battle."

So, that's where we are today. Still no answer from Cigna. Still no MRI for Andrew. Therefore, no real understanding of what's going on with his elbow. Very frustrating. 

I'm not trying to trash Elite MRI. Our experience there was excellent. But if we'd known that there was a magnet quality issue, we'd have used a different provider. Maybe we're the only ones this has ever happened to. Maybe every other MRI they've done has been crystal clear. I don't know. But I also don't want anyone else to go through the frustration that we're dealing with. 

And that's all I have to say about that. 

Monday, August 18, 2014

Grandma Logic

My mom has been visiting us for over a week now. She keeps saying funny stuff that I swear I'll remember and then I don't. So I'm posting this one to live on my blog for all eternity.

ANDREW: "Ouch, I fell off my bike onto my butt and now it's killing me!"

GRANDMA: "That's why you should always wear a helmet."

ANDREW: "On my butt?"

I'm still laughing.

And here's another one...

(Having lunch at Subway)

ME: "Mom, what are you gonna get?"

GRANDMA: "I guess, just a hot dog."

ME: "We're at Subway! They don't sell hot dogs."

GRANDMA: "Well, Honey, there are signs everywhere that say 'foot long.'"

Happy Birthday, Jack Weight! and why the Denver airport will always be special to us.

Jack Weight turns nine today at 5:03 pm. He was actually born at 2:03. But that was in Walnut Creek, CA. Having to wait those extra three hours for an age change is one of the downsides of escaping San Francisco's ludicrously high cost of living.

JACK: "I think we should have a Hammer style dance contest for my birthday festival."

ME: "it's now a festival?"

He's always been a tad grandiose, but original. I'm glad we have him. He makes me smile at least 27 times a day. And I'm still in disbelief at how normal he and his brother seem to be turning out despite my own messed-up-edness.

In fact, the primary reason that Jack exists is because I was terrified that I'd be a complete failure as a parent. And if Andrew had a sibling to share his misery with, he'd be less likely to become a serial killer.*  

James already had three precious, but much older daughters, plus Andrew. Outside of income tax purposes, he didn't see the need to add to the collection. But I couldn't shake the preoccupation of my own childhood loneliness and depression being passed down to Andrew.** And in my unreasonable mind, only a sibling could fix that, or at least give Andrew someone to eat Christmas dinner with and argue about whose turn it was to visit their mom in prison.

James and I fought about having another baby at least once a week, sometimes more depending on the lunar cycle. I nagged. He ignored. I cried and begged. He drank. It went on for nearly two years.

Returning from a vacation to Mount Rushmore, my neurosis finally won the battle. 

(this sentence makes it sound like only my neurosis was on vacation. That'd be cool if you could send your character defects away for a while. I'd be more than happy to pack its bags, buy the ticket and drive it to the airport.) 

Anyway, if you've ever been to the Denver airport, you know that it's an excruciatingly long marathon of moving walkways. One after another, after another, after another, until two years have passed and you've slowly walked to Jupiter and back.

It was on walkway number 47 that I craftily introduced the baby subject once again. Unable to escape from between his insufferable wife and a Branson, Missouri bound couple who were wider than they were tall, James finally snapped. 

ME: (sounding like an addict in need of a fix.) "Honey, Andrew just can't be an only child.*** Please, just one more. Just ONE."

I didn't expect James to answer. He never did. Even today he rarely does. It's a skill he's perfected.

I was wrong. 

JAMES: (in a booming voice that shook the entire airport, the planes in midair and probably the city of Denver.)


A post-earthquake silence hung in the air. 

"thank you." I croaked in my smallest voice.****

The Branson bound couple put down their buffet guides and looked at us for a long second, not sure whether to offer congratulations or put in an advance call to DFACS.

This story has a happy ending.... or a happy "so far." James didn't yell anymore and warmed up to the idea of another baby. He started referring to Jack as his protege even while he was still in utero.

My kids don't seem to have any of the problems I had growing up. They're confident, light-hearted and not in the least bit socially awkward. 

Thank you, God. Thank you. 

And Happy Birthday, Jack Weight. Funny how no one ever just calls him Jack. It's always Jack Weight...sure is great. Hey, that rhymed. 

*If Dexter Morgan and his brother Brian had been raised together, they'd have turned out to be perfectly normal fathers of four with regular jobs that didn't involve blood spatters and prosthetic limb construction. Darn you, Harry, for ruining that. (From the Showtime series Dexter.)

**Even though I had siblings. Go figure.

***I now know that "only children" can be some of the happiest, most well-adjusted humans in long as their parents are reasonably sane. Having siblings or not having siblings isn't a good indicator of emotional well-being. 

****No, Jack was not conceived at the Denver airport. Dallas-Fort Worth is much more romantic. 

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

It's Now Thoughtful (or less, depending on whom you ask) Thursday

Today I'm trying something I've seen other bloggers do for years. It's called Wordless Wednesday...where you post a bunch of random photos that supposedly represent your life....on a Wednesday. (That was so yesterday.)

Some bloggers only include photos that make their lives seem like one endless girls' night with spa pedicures and highlighter colored cocktails and a glamorous job that they never work at. When do they do laundry? and wait in line at the DMV? 

They're not all like that, though. I once saw a Wordless Wednesday where the blogger posted photos of her skin tags and lesions, asking her readers for dermatological advice. I applaud her resourcefulness in the self help category.

Oh shoot, this is already too wordy to be called wordless. And it's going to get worse because I can't conceive of posting photos without captions. 

Here honest snapshot of my life and all of its trivialities. 

We live in a time where camera scopes can be threaded into tubes that easily snake through people's large intestines. And from the depths of your colon that video can be simultaneously displayed to a group of medical students three continents away. Just wrap your brain around that. Why the crap, hasn't someone invented pads that don't bunch up inside the cups of your bathing suit top? 
I FINALLY sold that God forsaken Oriental rug that I thought would follow me to my grave. Yes, it's the same one you've seen me advertise many times on FaceBook. The one that smells like a rest home for incontinent felines. I was so nervous that the buyer was going to get a whiff of the stench and back out. But I realized that she was God-sent when we loaded it into her truck, which reeked of cigarette smoke. 

My favorite headline of the day. Maybe of the week. Maybe, like, EVER. Do you think the woman got drunk before or after she stole the snake? Do you think in court she could use the "Just-like-Eve-I-didn't-realize-the-snake-was-Satan-and-he-told-me-to-do-it." defense?

Looks like Jack inherited the super-strong, Hall family nearsighted genes. Yesterday, he became a contact lens wearer.  "Mom, I'm gonna need more 'sailing solution.'" I was hoping only one eye would be affected and we could buy him a monocle to wear on one of those fancy chains, like European archdukes in the 1800's. And he could wear jackets with gold tassel shoulder pads and grow a handle bar mustache. Probably wouldn't be so convenient for baseball.

At the same optometrist visit, Andrew had his eyes dilated. These sunglasses give him a debonair combination of Jackie O. and "3D movie viewer. " And they're so much cheaper than Oakleys. 

When I whined that the boys were spending too much time on their devices and needed to learn some real games, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. But I guess it's not a problem until the sterling silver disappears. (who am I kidding? I pawned that years ago!)
Decorating: Four wall plates. Fourteen nail holes. And they're STILL not right!!!! 
James in his home office. Sometimes he lets me visit him. But only in five minute increments. 

And I declared victory over the backyard yellow jackets. C-4 is officially my new favorite thing. Thanks, Pinterest!!!!
The neighbors have had a crew of combative, hard-of-hearing Mexicans seemingly rebuilding their house from the ground up for the past two weeks. They scream at each other in Spamish all day long.

 I started making up my own Latino Construction soap opera, in which brick mason Javier wants to kill roofer Jose Abreau because he caught him with his Abuela Rosita. And then I remembered that abuela means grandma. And while daydreaming, I should've been doing the dishes because Andrew was eating yogurt with a fork. 
Cali gazes out the window at the Constructiones Latinos all day long. I think she dreams of being a carpenter. 
Meanwhile Anakin lies on his back all day, staring at shampoo bottles in the shower. I really should do more to entertain them. 

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

I Need a Date Night...and better dental insurance

Here's a random photo of my kids that makes me laugh when I'm feeling irritable. 

(This morning...first cup of coffee in hand)

JAMES: "Honey, I've been thinking. I want to take you to....."

(Sentence interrupted by a rhinoceros-sized yawn lasting 28 seconds) 

ME THINKING: (excited with anticipation) "he wants to take me somewhere!!! Yay, he's finally realizing how badly we need a date night! Maybe even a weekend away to a cute bed and breakfast up in the mountains. Or maybe he's gonna say furniture shopping. He was paying attention to all my hints about a new living room set. Geez, will you just finish your yawn already? I can't stand the suspense!"

JAMES: (ending rhino yawn) "so I was thinking..."

ME: "yes? yes? Where are you going to whisk me off to? Is a horse-drawn carriage involved?"

JAMES: "Wells Fargo. They need your signature on file. We can take my truck."

He clearly doesn't know how badly I need to get away. I'm not whining. Well, maybe I am. But it's 12:02 p.m. and over the past four hours I've cleared a toilet clog, cleaned dog feces off a rug, run to Walmart for a box of "make your carpet smell like a dog didn't crap on it" powder, vacuumed the house, made two meals, blah, blah blah. This is pretty much everyday. 

And now I'm sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Krone dds, watching a cartoon featuring Brusher Bailey, a super hero fighting bacteria bad guys on the rough, mountainous terrain of a kid's mouth. 

My son Andrew is getting a filling to replace the one that he recently lost. If that kid doesn't start keeping up with his stuff, I'm gonna scream. 

I guess that's all for now. Andrew is done and ready to go home, where my Prince Charming is waiting to for our rendezvous at Wells Fargo. Maybe I should put on a cocktail dress. 

*Disclaimer: in spite of not picking up on numerous "hints," my husband is a great guy who often does special things for me.