organized chaos

So we had some birthday madness around here this last weekend. I might have mentioned that my oldest is now a decade old. Wowzers.

But the real issue at hand is the cake building. I’ve built some doosies in my time. Some really swell and some really not. That’s how most things are for me. No middle ground in my life. That’s how I roll with it.

I’ve found, however, that with working weekends, cake building becomes infinitely more stressful to complete in the 5 hours available to me on a Saturday morning. Because you know that’s not the ONLY thing I have to do on a Saturday morning before a party on Sunday.

And then there’s the sleep deprivation from the late night at work on Friday. So. I’m a real peach to be around on Saturdays. Really. You should come over so I’ll have an extra head to chew off.

No matter how peachy I am, though, I never forget to document these moments for all posterity you folks to laugh at.

Here’s some snippets of info I thought I’d pass on about cake building.

Let’s say you forget to add the water to the cake mix. Then you start mixing away and realize the mix resembles thick chocolate ice cream. Here’s a tip for you: Don’t just pour all that water in all willy nilly. Especially if you have two boxes of cake mix in the bowl for a double batch. The result when you turn the mixer back on will be similar to this picture. And you will have watery goop up and down your shorts and shirt as well. Not that I would know. I’m just guessing here.

Unless you like to make as much of a mess as possible as you go. In that case, forget I mentioned it.

Once you break your arm stirring in the water by hand, it will then be safe to turn the mixer back on and go to town. All’s well that ends well.

Unless your sink looks like this.

I don’t know about you, but there is nothing more defeating to me than to look at this. So let’s interrupt this program for a word from our Sponsor:

Methylphenidate.

Known to the common man as Ritalin.

Known to the tired man as wakefulness.

Friend to the narcoleptic and ADD children the world over. Available by prescription only. Use as directed. Side effects include rocking the messy house and dancing uncontrollably to 80’s music.

So the cakes actually turned out fine, and I moved on to the frosting bit. Last year I actually bought the canned frosting. *GASP* Please don’t choke on whatever it is you’re eating or drinking whilst reading this. Like I said, working the weekends has greatly kinked my cake building skills, and had I the money, I probably would have bought a cake from the store already made. The gremlins would actually prefer it. And at this point, I’ve got nothin’ to prove.

I found out at the last minute that I was out of frosting bags. Drat. Luckily, Charlie’s mom sent one of these crazy doo-hickies in the box one time, so I had something to frost the bat with. I’ve avoided it so far because while it is easy to use, it’s small and you have to keep refilling it after exactly 10 star shapes. And my frosting color?

Don’t judge me. Frosting color is my nemesis. I was going for a dark blue. I added tons of blue and some icky old brown stuff I found in my birthday tub and this it what I got. Puke green. Batman was feeling a little sick that day. The bat signal just didn’t have the usual significance. But ask me if I care.

A word about the frosting itself: scrumdiddlyumptious.

For some reason, the frosting was extra good this time. I used real butter and some maple flavor. I’m not a huge fan of frosting, but I do taste a little when I’m making it and I almost died of euphoria when I tasted this.

It couldn’t have been related to the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything yet. But that might explain the maniacal laughter eminating from the kitchen for about an hour afterward. In the end I was forced to bypass the spoon and inject it straight into my veins.

I might need help. Anybody know the hotline number for this sort of thing?

Don’t worry though, I finished the bat cake.

The puke green bat signal strangely represents the exact color of my face about an hour after my frosting injection. Sugar highs only last a little while, then the fun’s over. What goes up must come down.

Good times.

Someone’s gonna have to get me one of these to drive, ’cause I just upgraded the memory in my laptop.

By myself.

With no screaming or pulling out of the hair.

Now, to be fair, I’ll tell you that my dad showed me a few weeks ago where it would go, once I got it. And can I just say that I was so freakin’ scared of wrecking My Precious by touching the memory card wrong, or shoving it too hard into the slot?

It only took me a couple tries, and whammo! I can finally use Photoshop. I can reboot my laptop in less than 5 minutes. In the words of Nacho Libre, “My life is goood. Really goood. It’s fantastic!”

And while I was attempting a nap this afternoon, which by the way didn’t happen, I got to thinking about how cool it would be to be able to install a memory upgrade in my brain. I may have mentioned that my own memory leaves much to be desired. But think about the speed and efficiency part of upgrading memory on a computer.

Everything runs so much smoother and faster. I’m a little like that when my Ritalin’s working. For about an hour after each dose, I am Wonder Woman. It’s like my brain wakes up and whoa!

The heavens open up.

The oceans roar.

My mind works with precision and clarity.

I don’t need to eat.

No thank you to sleep.

Hello good times.

Hallelujah and Amen, I can even form a complete sentence then speak it without forgetting what I was going to say or what that word was that I’ve spoken a million times, yet somehow it’s escaped my memory.

I like the Ritalin. Is that what everyone feels when they are truly awake? Is that what I’ve missed all my life due to narcolepsy? I think if I were awake (mentally) all the time, no one would be able to stand me. Either that, or I might get elected for President of All Things Good and Right.

But as it stands, mental fog is my thorn. And the only thing I’m a President of is Gremlin Central. Of which I’m not only the President, but also a member.

So I’m not going to lament. But in Heaven? Man, that’s going to totally rock.

Comment #20–Sharon from http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/momn4boys/! I’ll email you soon with your instructions. Hang tight!

Man! You guys warmed my heart with your excitement over my drawings. I had to fight off the temptation to tell everyone to forget the rules and why don’t I just draw one for everyone who took the time to enter. But alas, I have responsibilities. Like unclogging toilets and scraping peanut butter off the knives that should’ve been clean from a run in the dishwasher.

In case you’re wondering my process of choosing, go here. It was painfully quick. I felt a little like a cheater and had images of putting numbers in a hat and making one of the gremlins choose.

But wait! I have news.

Since so many people expressed interest in something I thought I’d never be able to pursue again, the drawing of portraits for a humble living, I decided to set up my very own Etsy shop. If you’re at all interested in this, hop on over there and check it out.

And never fear. This giveaway amused me greatly. There might just be another one on the horizon because I also feel generous on my birthday, which is about a month away.

So tune in for more madness around here, and you just might be glad you checked in!

***TIME’S UP!! Go here to see the winner!****

Hands down, fall is my favorite time of the year. I can breathe in the crisp morning air and feel like a new woman. I can listen to bickering with nary a twitch. I cook dinner with a smile on my face, or at least in my heart. Gosh darn it, I might even put away the freakin’ laundry!

Maybe it’s because I was born in the fall. And the color of fire all around me gives me a boost of energy that’s pretty much non-existent the other times of the year.

But lucky for you all, I’m feeling especially fun and generous, and want to give you something.

Yeah, you read that right. I’m doing a GIVEAWAY, but first let me tell you a little something. Fall also inspires me to break out my drawing pencils and do stuff like this:

That’s a portrait of The Cuteness in case you didn’t recognize him in pencil form. And that’s what I’m giving away. NOT The Cuteness or his drawing, silly!

I want to draw something for you. Someone, that is. I only do people.

So here’s how it will work.

1. Leave me a comment, saying you want a groovy pencil drawing of someone you like or even love.
2. Post a short blurb on your site about this giveaway and spread the word.
3. Wait anxiously for The Official Day of Fall, which is September 22. I will end the giveaway then and announce a winner that day using a random picker thingy.
4. If you don’t have a blog, NO WORRIES! I’m not prejudice! Just leave a comment.

Now, if you would like to use one of my drawings as a button of sorts in your post about the giveaway, then you can choose whichever one you like at My Art Gallery page. Or you can go to my Flickr account and get different sizes on the one you choose.

And here’s the fine print: I only draw people. Mostly faces. This giveaway will be a PENCIL drawing. I know I have some watercolors on My Art Gallery, but maybe another time for all that nonsense. If you win, you will send me a JPEG file of your subject. Hopefully it will be a good shot of them. Then I can print it off here to use for the drawing, so no one has to part with any precious photos. And I know many of you have several loved ones to choose from, but for the purpose of this giveaway the winner should only choose one. If it goes well, maybe I’ll do it again!

I’m so excited. For Fall to make it’s entrance and to give someone a drawing. Two of my favorite things wrapped up in one!

And if I forgot any pertinent details, be a peach and email me. Now go forth and enter

The Fall Drawing Giveaway

My man found this very short clip of this contortionist on YouTube. So naturally he thought of me, since I do this for guests and family all the time.

In fact this is me, in a disguise. My Man just thought it was high time I let you in on one of my hidden talents.

——————————————————————————————

And here’s some philosophy from Jackelope for you to chew on.

” If I wasn’t a person,

I would be dark.”

Now, go forth and think noble thoughts.

My only girl’s got some mad domestic skills. And I don’t necessarily mean the neat and tidy kind. I’m talking about creative thinking and all that.

She’s been bugging me for a very long time to come and visit her at her house. The one she built outside. Listen, I don’t really do heat and last Sunday was the first day cool enough to warrant taking a trip outside for anything other than running to the van to turn on the A/C really fast.

First let me tell you that she has moved two other times. She would want you to know that. Her other two “houses” were not as big as her present one and she is very proud. I took my camera for my visit out to the pit backyard.

Welcome to 7759 Walnut. That’s what Zoe says her street is called, but I beg to differ. Looney Lane would be more appropriate.

Once I got comfy at her little red table, she offered me some pickles. They grow right there on her floor, if you can believe it. I’ll never be able to eat pickles from a jar again. I’m a changed woman.

Then she spun quite a tale of something that happened in her last place of residence. Something about ants under her bed and baby spiders. She was mortified as I’m sure you would be too.

She must have sensed my skepticism. I’ll have to work on that.

Then she showed me her To Do List. It looked blank to me, but who am I to judge the way other women run their households?

Number one on the list: kick the neighbors cat off the fireplace. (That’s the brick construction with the sticks)

Number two: balance the tv.

She assured me this was quite the chore, as the tv is very heavy and never wants to stay on the skateboard. And I thought matching socks was annoying!

Number three: fill up the sink. It looks like a drag.

And as a side note, she’s been warned to empty it every night, due to the catastrophic mosquito population in Kansas this year.

Right in the middle of her recitation of the To Do List, we had a visitor. Zoe wasn’t too happy. But when Jackelope needs his mother, what can you do. He said his piece and was promptly kicked out.

I had a nice visit and learned a couple things about my daughter. She likes her couch the best, her basement still needs to be cleaned out, but it’s not a priority, and I really need to hang out with her more often. She’s the hostest with the mostest.

still looking for this?

then click that guy or scroll down a bit. Thanks.

Every time I do something wrong, and I go to try it again, I hear that phrase in my head.

“I’m a learning robot.”

I wasn’t sure where I’d heard that before until this afternoon when Jackelope put on “The Incredibles” and Mr. Incredible fights that big fat round robot. The one that the white haired chick had told him it’s hard to beat because it’s a learning robot.

I hear it a lot when I’m doing something on the computer and I remember right away what it was I did the last time I did that certain task and had success. I smile to myself and think,

“I am SUCH a techie, now! I AM a learning robot.”

But then there are things that my brain, for whatever reason, just does not want to learn the lesson. Or maybe my brain tries very hard to do the right thing, but my flesh just won’t budge. Maybe that’s what would happen if robots did have flesh. If we made them too human, that’s where the flaw would be.

But enough science fiction. Here’s my list of the mundane and not so mundane things my hard drive cannot learn once and for all.

• If you eat too much sugar, you will be ill.

I just don’t ever hear “I’m a learning robot” when I’m stuffing my face with too many pastries. It doesn’t happen very often, but about once a month I’ll crave sweets so bad I dream about them. I’ll get up from a nap and wolf down anything refined and white faster than my brain can warn me. Then I feel ever so close to vomiting the rest of the day. And shaky. And generally pooped.

• Biting all your nails off will only tick you off later.

I bit my nails all my life, probably from the time I cut teeth, and finally stopped a few years ago. It was quite an accomplishment. But every once in awhile, when I’m subconsciously stressed, I’m like a rabid beaver gnawing away at my nails. To the point that they hurt for 2 days afterward. What is that?

• When you yell at the gremlins all day like an irate madwoman, you will drown in guilt the minute your head hits the pillow that night.
• If you don’t set the timer when you cook things, you will burn them every time.

Occasionally I revert back to the good old days when I had the ability to think clearly and I just leave that batch of cookies in the oven, sure my internal clock will intuitively let me know when they are browned to perfection. I don’t seem to remember that with the birth of my last child, he grabbed hold of that last shred of intuition and pulled it down and out the birth canal with him.

• I don’t have to do what everyone tells or suggests that I do.

You may think I’m so independent minded, but I am still easily persuaded from time to time. I usually guard against such influence by avoiding certain books and people. But occasionally I’ll watch a tape for, say, The Phonics Game. And the nice ladies on there insist that you play their game at least three times a week, or it just won’t have the benefits otherwise. Well, I find that I actually feel guilt when I look at the box for The Phonics Game and realize I haven’t broke it out for over two weeks! I feel guilt from two women I’ve never even met! Where are you learning robot mind???

This is why I am on the computer so much. No guilt. Plenty of self confidence. But I don’t really think it would give me a ride to the airport if I needed one.

So what’s something you struggle with trying to learn over and over? Hmmm?

Cleaning their rooms is one thing my gremlins are required to do on their own. Although it takes every blessed ounce of self control on my part to not go up there and rant and rave and fling barbie’s around and chuck happy animals in the trash, I have learned (somewhat) to force them to learn the art of cleaning their own living space. I have the jacket for that club, but fortunately am no longer a member. I am, in fact, a recovering perfectionist.

Their rooms are upstairs. My room is downstairs. Therefore I can, thank the Lord, avoid seeing their caves most of the time. Especially since my oldest has acquired the mad skill of taking The Cuteness to bed for his many naps and I let him. Because I am lazy.

And the laziness doesn’t end there folks. I am going to air my filthy knickers for all of blogland and maybe some members of my own family to witness. When it comes to cleaning their own rooms, of course, understandably, the gremlins are proud of their work. And in the past, I would haul my tired body up those stairs, cringing all the while at the messy state of the stairs themselves, to see their beloved cleaning skills.

My mother always said she made us kids do our own work growing up. For the value of learning it. Did she ever have to turn a blind eye to the likes of this:

Some of you may be tempted to berate me for picking at the job accomplished here. And unfortunately I don’t have a before shot, because to see that would cause all your molecules to combust much like beans in a microwave.

When I see this, I see the various pieces of whatever sticking out from under the bed and the overall lack of crispness, as My Man would say.

But Jackelope was indeed proud of his work. And Gosh Darn It, I should be too.

And by the way, he took this photo himself.

Yes, that’s the lazy part. Ever since I got the little digital that’s ever so easy to use, I’ve sent the gremlins upstairs to document their work, so lazy old mom didn’t have to come ALL THE WAY UPSTAIRS to gush over it.

Then they come back down and show me through the LCD monitor. And I proclaim them to be cleaning geniuses. So really, it works out for everyone.

Here’s Zoe’s work. I cringe a little looking at it, but she’s making progress.

You won’t find this room in a spiffy gremlin’s decorator magazine, but at least the girl will have some cleaning experience.

And it doesn’t stop at cleaning exercises. Socrates is always building stuff when the thought of it doesn’t make him want to puke.

So, to save his poor mother the honest to goodness aerobics of climbing stairs, he whisks my digital upstairs and shows me this:

And everyone’s happy.

Except my blubbery body that never gets the workout it obviously needs.

Every 6 or 8 weeks, people require hair cuts around here. And like many other frugal *read ‘poor’* mothers, I perform the dirty deed. Since I just had my third boy, I see no end in sight, unless My Man gets a really big raise and then FINALLY I can send them on their merry way to the barber.

Can you tell I loathe this task? A couple weeks ago My Man proclaimed it time for another cut. We planned on a night, then it came and we planned on another night, and it came. Then we planned on another week. See a pattern? His procrastination issues coupled with my obvious loathing for this chore prolongs the inevitable. The hair must be cut.

By now, you’re probably like, “Stop your griping, woman! Suck it up and cut the hair already!” And I would usually agree with you. But I have to ask the question: Have you ever cut Hispanic Hair?

My Man is 3/4 hispanic. That means not only is his hair Super Extra Way Beyond Breck Girl Thick, but it repels water like a dog or a duck. So do my boys’ hair. GOOD TIMES!

Did I mention my tools for the job are inferior, to say the least?

Not helpful.

So My Man started a quaint little tradition a few years ago. One night as I was preparing my inferior tools with oil and sweet talking them into another rigorous workout, My Man popped a CD in the player. Which he usually does. To silence my anguished cries of torture.

As I began the futile task of wetting his water repellent hair, a song, familiar to my childhood blared through the speakers of our CD player. I don’t have a clip but here are a couple pictures to jog your memory.

Can you hear the music? The Barber of Seville? Did I mention My Man is almost as looney as I am?

He thought it was so funny, to mock my anguish in such a way, that now, years later he still insists on playing that crazy tune every time he gets his hair cut.

And by the time I’m done and the whole movement plays, it eventually gets to William Tell, aka The Lone Ranger Song while I get to clean up this:

And this:

It’s scary I know. And I’m sorry to have to show you such horror. But don’t feel bad for me. I’m still alive. I did get it cleaned up. I did have to rent a street cleaner, though.

See this?

Socrates found it on the end of our block on one of his little bike rides. He came home all a twitter that he had found some torn up pieces of paper and maybe we could tape it back together and see what it says.

And you know? I got all a twitter too. I’ve told My Man for awhile now that I’d be so good at that CSI stuff. Piecing puzzles together, analyzing handwriting, matching fingerprints, quipping witticisms to my fellow CSI co-workers whilst passing them in the dusky hallway, doing the slow-motion-cool-walk down the middle of a highway; crime-scene kit in one hand, a plate of nachos in the other.

But I digress.

I would hardly call piecing together an old note found on 4th street worthy of CSI, but one never knows what kind of sordid details might be found. I’m not the kind of person to go nosing around in other people’s business in an outward way. In fact, most people who know me would never guess how closely I pay attention to the littlest of details around me wherever I am, because I am always fascinated by the goings on of people’s lives.

Well, Socrates had to make a few trips back to the scene in order to get what I needed, and lucky for me we had some tape stashed away somewhere. The thing went together fairly well, in fact there was two original sheets. But I only got one put together.

Now after all this build up, you’re probably as a twitter as I was to know what it said. Admit it.
In the end it was nothing special. Just a bunch of mumbo jumbo about this girl, (the writer), having feelings for the guy she’s writing to and the age difference doesn’t mean anything to her. She’ll gladly buy his cigarettes any time he needs them. And isn’t that what love is all about?

Buying cigarettes for your underage lover?

I was welling up. Really.

My Man wasn’t impressed. He was actually rather disgusted. Not by my curiosity, but at the fact that we don’t know who owned the note. He’s a germaphobe, God bless him.

In this day and age of technology, I feel, as a mother, that it’s never too early for gremlins to be trained on the computer.

Here The Cuteness demonstrates that even at the tender age of almost five months, point and click is easily attained.

“Yes, I am cute. It’s true. But one has to have some marketable skills in this world. Besides drooling profusely on one’s mother’s nice pink shirt.”

So I couldn’t really come up with a cohesive theme for this post, but I am all over The Random. It’s what I do best.

I’ve mentioned Cooper, our microcephalic dog. For those of you that refuse to look up the word, microcephalic, let me finally tell you it means someone with a head too small for the body it’s attached to. I’m sure Webster would have a slightly different version, but you refuse to look it up yourself and now you’re stuck with my version. So stop complaining. You know who you are.

So, I got a couple shots of Cooper. Hyena Extraordinaire.

The first time Commando Demando saw him lay like this, she said he looked like a raw chicken.

I love making bread. I don’t really make anything fancy, like 50 grain whole wheat berry nut loaf. I stick with the basic white bread. In this day and age of Atkins and South Beach diets, I feel alone in my pursuit of really good white bread. I suppose it’s the Swedish blood coursing through my veins that creates such an urge to bake breads and sweets and to drink my coffee with real sugar and tons of chocolate raspberry coffe-mate. But, if you were here at my house and could smell the aroma of homemade bread and got a peek at this

you’d probably eat it too. Carbs? What carbs? You would be in heaven.

My Man showed me this spray this morning

It’s a little blurry, but if you look closely at that print, it says: “…and a long lasting fragrance designed to seduce the ladies. If you spray it, they will come.” He says it doesn’t work. Which begs the question, is this why he says he’s so busy at work when I call? Just kidding, hon! I know you’re very busy crunching those numbers.

A friend of mine from church has been cleaning out her basement. Her youngest child is 17 or 18, I don’t know. She brought me some stuff and upon closer inspection, I realized, with glee, that some of it was quite vintage. Like this:

I felt all nostalgic when I saw Mr. Play Doh Kid’s head at the top right corner of the box. I’m not sure if he’s even on the new ones. I stopped buying this stuff awhile back since everyone here thinks it’s stupid. Not sure why. But what really gave me a kick was the Surprise Inside! that is mentioned on the box. As you can see at the top of the box, there’s “surpise mold in every can!”. I don’t know about you, but anytime I find mold, it’s a surprise. A bad one. Mold on the last package of cheese. Mold on the last package of hamburger buns. Mold in the NEW package of pudding cups. All surprises. All bad.

And after a bad surprise, I like to retreat to my little piece of heaven. My ornamental pond.

This was here when we bought the house, but it needed much work. I’m obsessed with this thing. I had fish, that even survived the winter, but in my haste to get them back into the clean water, I shocked every one of them. To death. Oops.

Here’s what’s growing in my pond right now.

Just gazing at my beauties fills me with peace.

Until someone lets the hyena outside

and he barks incessantly at the neighbor kids he sees every freakin’ day of his life or decides to pee on the stroller I accidentally left in the yard.

Aside from ripping up couches and devouring vats of fruit snacks, my gremlins have an addiction that makes them unique to their breed.

Office supplies.

While some mothers are lamenting the money it takes to keep their gremlins in baseball uniforms, underwear, toothbrushes, juice, and other normal things like that, I’m trying to organize a relief fund to keep my gremlins supplied with a few essentials we seem to always be running out of.

1. scotch tape. I can’t hide this stuff fast enough. You think I’m exaggerating, but at least five times a day, at least, someone is asking me for scotch tape. Or it’s sister, Duck Tape. No, not the duct tape that’s silver and works on everything. I’m talking about the clear packaging tape that has a duck for a logo plastered all over the cardboard roll. So therefore, it’s called Duck Tape. Not this:

2. staples. I don’t even ask what the gremlins need this for most of the time. It might involve a combination of Cooper, the microcephalic barfing dog, an old photo of cousin Joe, and three pencils.

3. white paper. With no lines on it, thank you very much. Commando Demando is the main culprit as far as this supply goes. Look, I want them to be creative, but they’re going to have to start choosing what’s more important: white paper or pink milk. They can’t have both.

4. band-aids. Not an office supply in the traditional sense, but who cares? We have a lot of fakers in this house. You know the type. “My hand made contact with a dull rock, but I still need a band-aid because it hurts.” Then when someone actually bleeds, the gremlin’s are shocked at the fact that there are NO band-aids anywhere. Only the lonely empty wrappers blowing around on the shelves of my linen closet.

5. batteries. Especially AA. I would try to hide these, but like everything else I try to hide, there comes a time when I need them, and then I can’t find them either. Such is my life. The gremlins have figured out how to operate a screwdriver, so now they take my batteries at whim and fill their lovely little noise making toys whenever they get the urge.

6. super-glue. This is Commando Demando’s favorite staple. Before I had gremlins, I went years without the purchase of this little product. If something broke, I threw it away. I’m very un-sentimental like that. If you have gremlins, you know that something as precious as Superman/Clark Kent action figure can NEVER be thrown away, and if someone rams him into a rock repeatedly and *gasp* his arm breaks off, well then, he must be glued.

Ours has been glued four times. In different places. And taped twice.

With Duck Tape.

If ever I were to leave my family unexpectedly and unfortunately, there are a few things they would miss more than all the other nice things that make me a cool person.

Yes, there are a few invaluable skills I possess that keep me on the pedestal of the gods in my family’s eyes.

I thought I’d list them here. Including, but certainly not limited to.

Tuning the rabbit ears. We are one of the few families left on this green earth without cable. Not really, but it does seem like it on Wednesday night when I try to tune in one of our three channels in so we can watch Lost. Despite the fact that My Man believes I have the golden touch as far as these bad boys go, Wednesday nights are a major stress factor to me, as I desperately wish to watch Lost as clearly as possible in order to catch all the “Easter Eggs” they give us. But alas, it never comes in as I’d wish it, and I end up in knots, frothing from my mouth over the insanity of it all. I will miss Lost until it’s return next Jan/Feb., but I will not miss tuning it in.

The next wicked skill I possess is functioning the remote. I may have mentioned earlier that I purchased a really cheap version looking nothing like this one, innocently believing it would make life easier. How wrong I was. My Man can memorize the first hundred numbers in Pi, but the remote may as well be a Japanese riddle as far as he’s concerned. So, therein lies my value: changing the channel and fixing his flubs when he tries to.

My other skill concerning this appartatus would be finding it. While the first two skills have been passed on somewhat to my oldest gremlin, finding the remote has sadly not been. Probably because there is scientific evidence that males cannot find things. Even when the remote is notoriously hiding out in one of two places every time: in the couch cushions or under the lip of the couch on the floor.

    My dog might as well have been eating this all week because my next skill involves the cleaning of much excrement. I never said my skills were pretty. It doesn’t matter which end of the animal it comes out of, nobody in this house can clean it up as quickly and efficiently as I can. And they probably never will. Since it’s gross.

/>My Man likes to use pens at work. Often he gets a mark on his nice shirts. Never have they been as bad as in the picture there. But I can get them out, yes sir. And without any of that new fangled fancy pants stain remover.

Clogs of all kinds: beware. With the exception of last night, when my kitchen sink wouldn’t drain for the life of me, and we had to call over our Handy Man Neighbor, more on that later, I can usually unclog whatever. Bathtubs, toilets, sinks, vaccuum cleaners. I have a strange, but handy need to unclog things. I think I might actually enjoy digging all that hair and dirt out of a vaccuum tube. I think I might love listening to the clear whistle of water flowing down a drain where once it wouldn’t.

Now go forth and think about your own skills. Comment on them here. I’d like to know what makes you invaluable to your family.

Since the neighbor is over working on our clogged kitchen sink, I thought I would rerun an old post in the same vein from back in the day.

previously posted March 23, 2006

Good Morning, Citizens of the World.

You know, there’s nothing like starting out your day with a cup of coffee in one hand and a toilet plunger in the other. We’re talking invigorating energy here.

I’ve been at war with our bathtub going on months now. I thought the slow drain was a result of all my hair falling out and I imagined the narrow old drain just couldn’t take the consequences of my stress. So I got a nifty hair catcher that just plops right into your drain for a buck-fifty.

The next time I was in the shower, I popped that bad-boy right into the drain to catch my stress and turned the water on. In just a few minutes time the water level started to rise, and lifted the nifty hair catcher with it. No suction. Drats!

So my daily shower ritual began.

#1 Run the water to clean out previous hair and dirt left from the previous shower

#2 Run enough water to plunge, in hopes of opening the drain

#3 Plop in stress, errr, I mean hair catcher

#4 Start shower and get in

#5 Watch drain suspiciously for signs of suction

#6 No dice for the suction quotient

#7 Reach out for the plunger, placed conveniently by the bathtub

#8 Plunge the drain, with the shower still running mind you, for all I’m worth

#9 Stand back and watch suspiciously for drainage

#10 Rinse and Repeat until hair catcher sits in drain properly, then throw the plunger up against the wall because the whole process took so long, the hot water ran out.

I took the cover off the drain spout that sits on the wall of the tub and made a fascinating discovery. Old hardware that I suspect used to be part of a stopper system is mysteriously attached somewhere down in the drain, where I can’t see it. Unless I grow an eye that works like one of those mechanical probes doctors use in exploratory surgery. That would be so cool.

Due to my obsessive nature when it comes to these types of things, I’ve made the drain worse. And this morning, being the nice mom that I am, decided to gift my children with brand new light bulbs for their lamps and such in their bedrooms, and happened to peek in their bathroom.

Oh yeah. You guessed it. The sink was full of water. And not draining. No strong arming it this time. It’s a full-on clog. It could be marbles, beads, little tiny things only my kids would find. I’m told it was pieces of leaves, though I doubt the accuracy of that source.

By the way, have you ever tried plunging with one arm, while covering that other little hole with the other for maximum plunging? I think I just ripped my shoulder out of it’s socket.

Occasionally I have a few days in a row where my brain is releasing the good stuff and I feel good about my life. Really good. Like you-can-spill-kool-aid-on-my-floor-good-and-I’ll-just-smile-and-wink-at-ya-good.

I thought I’d list a few things I really like about today.

1. The mild breeze blowing through my windows, therefore making the A/C unnecessary.

2. The smell of banana bread in my oven with a hint of maple flavor thrown in there just cause it’s that kind of day.

3. The fact that my daughter Commando Demando can be bought off to feed the baby for me for as little as a stack of white paper.

4. When I looked up at my mimosa tree, that I thought the ugly freeze distroyed for this year, I saw tiny tendrils of leaves starting to poke out. Better late than never!

5. My tomato plants from last year re-seeded themselves in several places and now I will be gifted with many yummy tomatoes this year.

6. A little foxglove made it’s way out of the ground despite the ugly late freeze, and was an extra pleasure since I forgot I planted it there last year. This happens a lot.

7. I’m drinking my coffee with real sugar because my stint into Splenda land left me with a bad aftertaste, and I’m not feeling guilty about it one bit.

8. The Cuteness is getting cuter everyday. Here’s a reminder.

9. I’ve got a strawberry pie in the fridge that I actually made from scratch, and it looks yummers.

And now I hear The Cuteness making cute noises on the monitor so this list will have to be complete for now. Have a blessed day and go make your own list. Just do it. Because I said so.

You’d think I would’ve made a homeschool lesson out of it. The cat box, that is.

It was time to wash it out. It stunk so bad, that when I emptied the good litter on top and uncovered the peed-on litter at the bottom, the stench made my eyes water and sting. To me, this means breaking out the bleach. To me, bleach is the answer to many, many of lifes little problems.

Except I guess my brain wasn’t turned on as usual, and when I poured the bleach into the empty cat box, enough of the ammonia laced urine was left to cause it to bubble from a chemical reaction.

Instantly my brain came on, and I remembered the time I tried to clean my bathtub with a mixture of bleach and ammonia, and almost darn near killed myself with the fumes.

I quickly poured the cat box concoction down the drain, already detecting a slight burn in the back of my throat.

However, I did not give up. I used bleach water to mop the floor where the cat box lives. I will prevail. I will have cleanliness in all my corners.

Cat Box: 2 points

Carrie: 1.5 points

I was diagnosed with narcolepsy about 6 years ago. I’ve spent much of my life in and out of the Dr. trying to find out why I was so tired all the time as a kid and then as an adult. It was a relief to know.

Occasionally this disorder grants me a trip into the Twilight Zone. We’re talking hallucinations in the middle of the night, paralysis when I wake up, talking in my sleep, and yes, laughing in my sleep.

That last one doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, it’s quite a ride. Any time I talk or vocalize in any way while sleeping gives me a certain sensation that usually wakes me up somewhat. Last night, My Man shook me awake while I was having this dream. When I woke up enough I remember the laughter caught in my throat finally made it’s way to the surface and I started cracking up.

He asked what was wrong, so I guess it didn’t sound like laughter to him at first. He said he thought I was having one of my “freak outs.” That’s a nice scientific term for it. Before I knew it, I was laughing so hard, tears were streaming down my face and I could scarcely breathe.

Of course he wanted to know what I had been dreaming about. After a full five minutes of laughter I tried to eek out something about me and Bon Jovi fighting Karate style and how I was using raw slabs of red meat to throw at him in between the match (for extra leverage, I guess), and the sound of the meat on the sidewalk, thwap!, was just too much, and I started to crack up. That’s what he heard when he tried to wake me up.

Usually when I try to portray what I had been laughing at, it makes no sense to him or me, and he usually questions to himself what he got into with this marriage ten years ago, and exactly what kind of lunatic did he vow to spend his life with anyway?

But when I finally caught my breath, because I really could not stop giggling, and told him, “You probably don’t think that’s very funny,” he said, “No, that’s pretty funny.” I’m sure he actually meant what I was doing was funny. Not ha ha funny, but “maybe I should call the mental hospital funny.” “Or perhaps I should slip her a prozac funny.” “Or maybe I should just sleep in another bed funny.” Who knows?

Equally disturbing is having a dream so intense, I cry in my sleep also. I’ve woke up with tears streaming down my face and a sense of sorrow so intense, I was sure the dream had been real. Personally, I prefer the laughter. Whether or not that grants me permanent residence in Rod Serling’s tv show, well that is up to you to decide.

This is me on Mondays. Me and the Tasmanian Devil have more in common than I formerly thought.

Mondays are pretty much a hassle around here. For some reason I feel I need to do everything left over from the weekend in 3.7 seconds as soon as I get up. Forget about stretching it out over the day. I even made a nifty list to limit myself from getting too crazy and even set a timer to keep myself accountable to the fact that I have children who may or may not want me to set aside the mountain of chores to attend to their lunch.

So I set that danged timer for the allotted 15 minutes, and wouldn’t you know, true to my spasmodic nature, I plowed through almost every room of the downstairs like good ol’ Taz, apparently trying to accomplish 3 days worth of stuff.

What’s wrong with that? Have you ever seen Tasmanian Devil in action? Here’s what we have in common:

1. We move at dizzying speeds.

2. We plow over nice people in our way.

3. We can’t concentrate on anything longer than 3.7 seconds due to our ADD nature.

4. Our facial features display a certain look, when in Taz mode, that might scare young children.

5. We drool and froth when we get worked up.

6. We are both constantly hungry and devour everything.

7. We both possess an inability to frame complete sentences at times.

I really need to get a hold on this. For crying out loud there has to be some balance!

Every once in a while I get disgusted with looking at the same thing around my house and I feel the urge to move stuff around. It usually doesn’t happen all at once, but builds over a few weeks and without any warning or planning I engage myself in a whirlwind of activity shuffling the couch, tv, bed, whatever to different spots.

I think because I’m primarily a right brained thinker, I can’t stand for something to be the same for too long. It bores me to tears. Plus, moving stuff around is a great time to vaccuum out all that dust I’d probably otherwise never get to. When I’m done, I feel refreshed, like I’d just been granted a new lease on life or something.

This may sound kooky, but I can trace this behavior way back to childhood. Moving my bedroom furniture around was one of my favorite things to do. Yes, my family shakes their heads at my inability to leave things alone. Except my gremlins. How I love them. They have taken after dear old mom, and LOVE it when I move stuff around. They request for their rooms to be shifted every few months also.

I don’t do it as often as I used to, especially during my recent pregnancy. That just about killed me to not move things around when I felt the urge.

So how long has your furniture been in the same place?