"I'm Definitely Not Wearing My Underwear."

OK, so everyone has seen the movie "Rain Man", right?   The one where Tom Cruise plays the cocky, money-obsessed young man who, upon the death of his father, discovers that he has an autistic brother nearly twice his age who's been left the bulk of the inheritance (~$3 million)?   Yeah, I knew you did.  Great movie.  

Most of the movie's best scenes involve how Tom Cruise's character, Charlie, deals with the idiosyncracies involved with having autism.   His brother Raymond, played brilliantly by Dustin Hoffman, MUST adhere to the routines he's established for his daily life or else the wheels just come completely off his wagon.   He has times that he's supposed to eat, watch certain shows on TV, go to bed, take a shower, and so on.   Most of us like to be home in time to watch our favorite shows, but I would wager there are very few of us who would throw a screaming tantrum in the middle of a crowded street due to missing an episode of "Gray's Anatomy".  But if Raymond doesn't get to a TV in time to watch "The People's Court", that's exactly what happens.

My parents are NOT autistic.   Honest they're not.   But sometimes, dealing with them is like dealing with a scaled-down version of Raymond.   Mom's got her routine set up, and she doesn't like anyone dicking with it for any reason.   Some people would be nice and say she's got a passive-aggressive style ("Are you sure you wouldn't rather roast the chicken breast-down instead of breast-up?"), but my siblings have the opinion that there's no reason to be nice when we all come equipped with a buttload of sarcasm and biting wit.   So a few years ago, my eldest sister suddenly started saying, "I'm definitely not wearing my underwear" when Mom would get a little TOO nervous when her routine was disturbed....

Since Mom's had shingles, I've been spending a lot of time up there to help her out.   But even though she's now much better (yay!), I've realized that she STILL has issues she needs help with, and those aren't going away.    So I've decided to spend every Wednesday at her place:  I take her grocery shopping (the woman can barely lift a half-gallon of OJ, much less tote around gallon jugs of milk and iced tea), I vacuum, I iron, I drive her wherever she needs to go and do whatever she needs doing.  I don't mind it, and it makes life tons easier for her.   But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that every once in a while I want to slam on the brakes and ask her what difference does it make where you buy underwear.

Let's take something simple:  driving them to a doctor's appointment.   Now, my mom can drive (thankfully, my dad doesn't any more), but it's just easier and simpler for me to do it when I'm there.   It also keeps me from killing her when she pokes along at 28 in a 45 mph zone or won't make a left-hand turn unless she has a traffic light to hold back all the other cars.   Anyway -- most of the time, I don't know where I'm going when she asks me to drive her somewhere, but some things get to be repeat destinations.   So the trips to the doctor's office can sound a lot like this:

"So, Mom -- where are we headed today?"
"To the podiatrist -- his office is over on Broadview.   Go down Stumph Road to Pleasant Valley."
"But Mom...wouldn't just going straight down Snow Road to Broadview be faster?   And there's no construction that way, either."
"No....Stumph Road to Pleasant Valley is the way we go."
"OK...I get that...but why?   Because if you go that way, not only do you go south to just come back up north on Broadview, but traffic is hell that way and the torn up road on Stumph might eat your car.   Just going straight out Snow Road and THEN going south on Broadview would skip all that crap."
"But we don't go that way.   We take Stumph Road.    That's the way we like to go.   It's just better."
"Why?"
"Because."
"What difference does it make?   Other than Snow to Broadview is faster, of course...."
"Well, because I don't GO that way."
"WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE WHERE YOU BUY UNDERWEAR?!"

Or...grocery shopping.  Yeah, that's a good one....

"Mom, how 'bout I grab Dad's newspapers and meet you over in the produce section?"
"No!   I don't get the newspapers until last."
"But...why?   If I just squirt through this little aisle here, I can grab 'em right away and save you trying to maneuver that scooter-thingy through a tiny aisle."
"Because....I get them later.   I don't get them at the middle of my shopping trip."
"WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE WHERE YOU BUY UNDERWEAR?!"

And so it goes.   There are a dozen instances of my mother pointing out that she's definitely not wearing her underwear.   But I love her anyway -- although I wonder if I'll be doing the same thing to my kids someday....

Stephen Hawking...I don't get it, but I love it!

Someone needs to explain to me why on earth someone who dropped out of Physics 101 in college after receiving a 48% on the first midterm LOVES shows like "Into the Universe with Stephen Hawking" and "The Wormhole" and all those other science-y shows that claim to explain the universe and the planets and so on.

I don't get physics.  I really really really don't.   And I'm a reasonably smart person.    But math is challenging for me once you get into calculus, so that probably explains a lot.   But I can't get enough science.  I love biology, astronomy, zoology (of course), and even certain aspects of chemistry.   Physics can go hang itself, but I'll respect it because Stephen Hawking is good at it and is able to then make TV shows that are fun for me to watch.

At least until they give me a headache.

Lawn mowing is NOT fun.

We bought this house 11 years ago.   At that time, Dr. Husband and I made an agreement:  I do not mow lawns.    This is probably left-over resentment from when I wasn't ALLOWED to mow the lawn (another story for another time...maybe),  but the result was the same.   I had no desire to mow the lawns on our property.  I was willing to weed, garden, plant, harvest, mulch, rake, whatever;  but I wasn't going to mow.

So for ten years, Dr. Husband kept his end of the bargain and faithfully mowed the lawn once or twice a week as needed during the warmer months.   But then....he earned the "Dr." part of his name, got a real job, and began driving to Cincinnati and back every day.

Not even I could demand that he do all that and continue to mow the lawn twice a week, especially since when he got HIS real job, I quit mine (well, mostly -- I still work the occasional shift).   So while I sit here on my duff, eating bon bons and watching soap operas and playing on Facebook, he should continue to drive 200 miles/day and mow the lawn twice a week when he gets home, right?

Wait, that's not completely true.   I don't eat bon bons or watch soap operas.

Anyway...I decided to man up (heh) and start mowing the lawn during the week.   It was actually easy for me -- I could mow the lawn after I took the Short One to school or early in the morning before it got so warm.   Well, easy ONCE I GOT THE DAMN MOWER STARTED!   We have a mower with a pull-starter that is just ridiculously hard to start.   At least, it's ridiculously hard for ME to start:  Dr. Husband waltzes over, pulls once, and it magically roars to life.   I have to yank on that f-er 6 or 7 times, as hard as I can, pulling that damn cord to the fullest extent of my reach before it will deign to start for me.

But once I got the thing started, it wasn't bad.   Until I realized that my shoulder was hurting...a lot.   And it began to hurt all the time...only the right shoulder...and it got worse after I would mow the lawn.   And then my shoulder began to hurt so much that it would keep me awake:  I couldn't sleep on my right side, and if I happened to turn that way, the pain in my shoulder would wake me up.   I finally went to a doctor, and he recommended physical therapy for a pulled ligament in my shoulder due to...wait for it...mowing the lawn.

Seriously?!   What kind of weenie does that make me?

Anyway...bottom line is, I had two months of physical therapy and now I'm good as new.   Well, good as I ever was, anyhow.   But I'm not allowed to even try to start that mower any more.  

How ridiculous is it that Dr. Husband has to start the mower for me before he leaves for work in the morning?!

For the last time, no we don't have a video game system.

I'm beginning to feel like our house is the only house on the planet without a Wii, Nintendo, Playstation, XBox, or some other kind of stupid video game system  (NOTE:  the Short One did get a Nintendo DS for Christmas this year, but his usage of it is severely restricted).    Other moms look at me so strangely when the subject turns to video games and I say I know nothing about them because we don't have one.

"Really?"  (insert incredulous look here)

"Yes, really.   I hate video games, and it's just another reason for my kids to park their behinds inside and do nothing but sit.    They already watch too much TV, and I want them to play outside."

*blank look*

"Well...but...then what do they do for fun?"

Are you kidding me???    How on earth do parents these days manage to make it if their electricity goes out or the game system breaks or the TV goes on the fritz?   My kids read.   They play silly made-up games with each other (for instance:  the latest game they made up together was called "Boomerang", and it involved taking Bionicle pieces and putting them together to look like the aforementioned throwing apparatus and pitching them up the stairs.   It had a point system and everything.).   They play REAL games with each other.   They play in the backyard with the dog.

And that's not to say the Short One doesn't ask for a Wii or whatever often.   He does.   But I'm also beginning to wonder if Dr. Husband and I are the only parents in the country who can say "No."

As an extension of this...are we also the only family that doesn't have a DVD player in the car/van?   I have a girlfriend who has said she couldn't possibly live without her van's DVD system -- she uses it every single time she puts her kids into the car.   She has a 3-year-old, a 2-year-old, and just had a new baby a few months ago, and apparently her older children need constant distraction.   Or something.   Anyway -- whether it's 2 hours to Grandma's house or 10 minutes to the grocery store, that thing is on when they're in the car.   Which leads me to believe there is some silly Dora/Barney/Wiggles/Blue's Clues/Yo Gabba thing playing in their house non-stop.


I swear...I think I'd shoot myself.

Why is it so strange that Dr. Husband and I TALK to our kids in the car?   We drove out to Montana and back from our home in central Ohio when the Short One was 2 and 1/2 -- no movies, no ridiculous kiddie music.  He had toys/books to futz with in the back seat, and when he wasn't in the mood to entertain himself, we talked, sang, or played road games.   Now that there are two kids and they're both a bit older, we play the alphabet game, the license plate game, the letter game, or the kids make up their own game for us to play.    The kids listen to the same music we listen to, and they can rock it out to Aerosmith with the best of them.

No wonder people hate road trips so much.  If I had to be strapped into a seat with nothing but Disney and Yo Gabba Gabba forced down my throat, I'd hate them, too.   Gotta make the road trips fun, folks -- and that means you might have to actually interact with your kids instead of letting the DVD player and video games do it for you.

School Days, School Days...

The Short One is going to be starting school again here in about a month.   He's in the third grade this year and very excited about it.   And scared, too.   Why?   Because thanks to our living and financial situation, we've had to pull him out of the parochial school he's been at since kindergarten and enroll him in the public school system.

I'm not worried about how he'll do;  the Short One is an extremely outgoing, gregarious, active kid who will have no trouble making new friends.   But no kid likes to be removed from a place where he's comfortable.   And I'm afraid that he'll be missing out on the things that I had as a student in parochial schools.   And our school district isn't as good as it could be.   But it's better than it's been the last few years, so I'm being as optimistic as I can, for everyone's sake.

But it's definitely not fun to have to take the money you used to use for your child's better education and use it for gasoline to drive to work more than a hundred miles away.    Nope...not fun at all.

But we're counting on good things from going to this new school:  lower school supply cost (they tell me there is a student fee of $20, which will cover whatever supplies he needs...we shall see) and the possibility of busing to school instead of my driving to drop him off and pick him up would be good.   

And what is the Short One happiest about?    NO MORE UNIFORMS.   Ha ha!

Thunderstorms Are AWESOME!

I used to be terrified of storms.   Just ridiculously scared of them.   Growing up near Lake Erie in the Midwest, we saw our share of decent summer storms.    And every storm watch/warning saw me putting our dogs' leashes, with the dogs attached to them if I thought I could get away with it without someone making fun of me, in the hallway of our house by the pantry because we didn't have a basement.   My mother was instrumental in fostering this fear;  every time there was a flash of lightning or a rumble of thunder, or every time there was a watch/warning issued, my mother would instantly turn on the Weather Channel and yell at anyone who dared to get near windows or the phone ("because you can get electrocuted through the phone line, you know!").

Then I went on a vacation with my siblings to Colorado and back.   That trip was a defining period of time for me for a lot of reasons, but one of the main ones was that this was the trip that scared the storm fear right out of me forever.   

I was 15 years old, and my sister K and I drove to St. Louis to pick up another sister, T.   We then drove on to the Rocky Mountain states, where we met up with our last sister CA and her husband and baby daughter, as well as our brother KM and his son and daughter.   We camped at Devil's Tower for a few nights because several of my sibs were planning to climb it (don't even say anything -- I already know how weird most people think we are in what we think of as fun).   And on one of those nights, we got a thunderstorm. 

Thunderstorm?   Nah...that was a near-tornado.   We had heard the storm warnings during the day, but no one was really worried except me...at least on the outside of their faces.    The sky darkened all evening as we prepared dinner on the fire and on camp stoves, and it started raining just as we all got into our tents.   K and I were in a tent with her dog, and the others were in family tents of their own.   The storm ramped up quickly, and before too long the wind was blowing so hard that K and I had our hands full just trying to keep the sides of the tent from collapsing inward on us.   But otherwise, despite the pyrotechnics outside and the heavy wind and rain and continuous bangs of thunder, we were fine, and I was actually beginning to calm down....until my sister T suddenly ripped open the door of our tent, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me out, saying "Get the FUCK out of this tent!   The trees are coming down and you're not staying in here!"    I had never seen T so scared in my life, and I had little choice but to follow her as she dragged me, K's sleeping bag (which got caught on my foot), and a clothing bag out into the storm.   K's dog also ran out of the tent in the excitement, and I guess she had her hands full getting him back.   But T dragged me to CA's van, where her husband and daughter were already inside with their dogs.   My brother and his kids declined the offer to join us, and K was busy getting our things back into the tent, so the rest of us took the van and drove down to the ranger station to see if there was any info.  There wasn't, of course, and we drove slowly back to our campsite, which was now flooded and littered with tree branches, while we watched the huge gusts of wind tear tents out of the ground and pull trees nearly sideways.    The storm finally died down, and we all went back to our tents.

The next morning, we were appalled at the amount of damage we saw in the campground.    That was easily the worst storm I've ever been in, and I spent it in a tent, mostly.    K always said that she and I would have been just fine in the tent, and the only reason anything got wet at all was because T panicked and pulled me out.   I had no idea T's fear of storms was almost as great as mine, if not greater, and it was a wonder to learn that someone so much older than I was could be afraid of anything, especially her.   But I learned a lot of things on that trip.

Anyway -- since that night, I've never been afraid of storms.   I guess those psychologists who use flooding to desensitize their phobic patients know what they're doing.   I now LOVE thunderstorms, and it's my mission in life (well, one of them, anyway) to make sure my kids don't suffer through summer storm warnings the way I did.

But that brings me to my problem for the day:  severe storm warnings.   I get that they're a good thing, but do we have to have the local news media whipping everyone into a panicked frenzy?   And can we just talk about the sirens for a minute?   On my side of town, it never fails that the tornado siren goes off at either 1. the least gust of wind or 2. about 4 minutes AFTER the storm passes me by.    Neither circumstance really makes me want to put a lot of faith in those damn sirens.  

So...my apologies to all of you with storm-phobic kids, pets, or adults in your households, but for me -- bring 'em on!   I'd like a little excitement in my world sometimes :)

Infinity Fetch

My last dog was an Irish Wolfhound.   Well...actually, the last dog who lived here was Midget, but he was a bitsy little brown sample-dog mutt that belonged to my grandmother until she died -- then he came to live here because I promised her when I gave him to her that I would take care of him (and WELL!!!) if she went first.   But he wasn't "mine".

Tibet was mine.  MINE.  M.I.N.E.

I loved her -- so much more than I ever thought it was possible to love a dog.   I had heard people talk about a "heart dog", but I never quite understood the phrase until I had her.   She came to me a 7-month-old, gangly, ridiculous pup with a tail injury and dietary AND contact allergies.  Shortly after I got her, Dr. Husband left for a job in Utah while I stayed here in Columbus to finish my last year of vet tech school.     Tibet went nearly everywhere with me, and I feel safe in saying that she would have crawled through fire if I asked her to.   She was the most well-behaved dog I've ever owned, and she managed to change the minds of some of my friends/family who had misconceptions about what dogs could be expected to do.   She lived until she was 12 years old and died of lymphoma.   I miss her every single day.

Tibet's been gone for about three years now, and Midget's been gone for about two.   Since that time, we had thought about getting another dog,    See, I'm an RVT, and it's almost unheard of for someone in my line of work to go through life without at least five or six pets, usually some or all of them with something wrong with them.    But with the whole mess going on with trying to sell the house and (hopefully) moving into a new place, Dr. Husband and I recognized that adding a puppy to the mix might not be the best idea.   But still...much as I loved my Tibet, I really missed having a dog.   So I began to think about maybe having a small dog again...just maybe...if I could find the right one...but I knew I'd never feel about any other dog the way I felt about Tibet.   And that's mostly because I don't think any other dog would feel about me the way she did.

Enter a good friend of mine.   K is an agility enthusiast and has several wonderful dogs.   My favorite dog of hers is a spunky little squirt named Honey*, who she was trying to finish and get titled so she could move ahead with breeding her and selling champion-born puppies.   K and I go way back, and shortly after we lost Tibet, she told me that when she bred Honey, she would give me one of her puppies.   But Honey ended up having some physical issues that wouldn't make any difference to the usual pet owner but could be everything to a show dog owner.   So K decided that it would be best to have Honey spayed and put dreams of Honey-puppies to rest.

Then, last fall, I got an email from K -- apparently, before she'd had a chance to spay her, Honey had a one-night-stand with another dog in the house.   The resulting litter of three mixed-breed puppies was here, and did I want one.    Did I want one?    A cute widdle puppy?     Are you kidding?

And of course...the bitch sent pictures.   Dammit.   As if I could even pretend to think about it after looking at the adorable little snausage-shaped bundles of cuteness.   But I did the right thing -- forwarded the email on to Dr. Husband and asked him what he thought.    And yes -- I sent the pictures, too.  Fuck if I'm going to be the only one roped in by that ploy!

Anyway -- long story short, we now have Willow.   She is a terrier mix and has all the spunky cuteness and fabulous personality of her mother.   She's wicked-smart and adores the kids and loves to play.

And yes...she's a sample-dog.    But I'm okay with that;  I figured it might not be too difficult to find a new place that accepted small dogs.    And besides...I'm honestly not sure I can have another Wolfhound.   Tibet was...everything I could want in a dog.   She lived for 12 years, and that wasn't nearly long enough.   But it was extraordinarily long for a dog of her breed -- they usually only live to be about eight years old.

But one thing Tibet did not do is fetch.   See, she was a chaser;  she would obligingly run after anything we threw for her for as long as it would keep going.  But when it stopped, so would she.  And then she would look back at us with this perplexed look on her face, then come loping back, her work done.    Willow, on the other hand....*sigh*....

"Infinity Fetch" is her favorite game.   She has a red tennis ball that I picked up at some pet expo or other.   She will fetch that damn ball...forever.   Or at least, that's what it seems like.   When she's in the mood to play fetch, you'd better be, too, or she'll make sure you play anyway.   If you don't pick up the ball yourself when she drops it, she'll pick it up again and flip it to you.   And if you try to "hide" the ball, hoping she'll forget about it and leave you alone, she'll frantically search the house (or yard), acting like a coke addict needing to do a line until you give up and give it back.  Then "Infinity Fetch" starts all over.    She's a tenacious little thing -- all ten pounds of her.

And she's so well-behaved.   She appears to love me with all of her being.

And I think she's found a little room in my heart.




*name changed

Dressing the Strong-Willed Child

I may have to write a book with this title someday.   Or...maybe not.   But nearly every morning this summer, I've had the following argument with the Wee One, who likes to dress himself.   Well, let's not gild the lily here -- he likes to do EVERYTHING himself, but that's beside the point.  

So, pretty much every morning since the weather's gotten too warm to wear long pants, Wee One puts up a fuss about having to wear shorts. Even on the days when the temps were already near 80 at 9 am, he would throw a tantrum when I refused to let him wear his heavy, red Buckeye sweats that he loves more than life. He likes to pick out his own clothes, and I'm okay with that (he's able to match clothing better than either his father or his brother on most days), but I'm NOT okay with him getting heat stroke in the name of fashion.

So the argument goes pretty much like this every day:
N: Mom? Shorts and T-shirt?
Me: Yes, honey.
N: WHYYYYYYYYY?
Me: Because it's going to be hot today, baby. And I don't want you to get overheated and get sick and not be able to run and play.
N: But Mommy!!!! I'm COLD!!!! My wegs are COOOOOOLD!!!
Me: Your legs are not cold. You were sleeping nearly naked without complaint. Put on shorts, please.
N: I don't WANNA put on shorts! I don't WIKE shorts! I wike WONG PANTS!!!
Me: Yes, honey. I know. *sigh* Please put on shorts. When it gets cold again, you can wear long pants again.
N: But Mommy -
Me: Honey, would you like to pick out your own shorts and t-shirt, or should I come pick them out for you?
N: NO! NO!!!! I'll pick dem!!!
Me: OK, then. See you downstairs.


I do love my darling, strong-willed baby boy.   But he makes me work so haaaarrrrrddddd....

Shingles Sucks

No, I didn't make a grammatical faux pas.   When I say 'shingles', I don't mean those stubbly little square things you put on your roof to keep the critters and weather out of your house -- I mean the illness that's caused by the same virus that causes chicken pox.    My poor mom developed shingles late last week, and it's been murder for the poor woman.   Shingles is a very painful, debilitating illness.   It has sapped her of most of the strength remaining in her 85-year-old body and also stolen her appetite, which is seriously not good when you're a diabetic.   Oh, and just for extra fun -- she also gets the pox, too!  Yay!   But at least they're high on one leg and can be covered with her shorts/pants.  

So when I heard Mom had shingles, I came up to spend a few days and make sure she didn't try to overdo.   And of course, my wonderful (cough cough) father still needed a drink brought to him, and his dang daily papers from two cities we don't live in picked up from the grocery store, and his clothes washed and folded, and his handkerchiefs ironed (?!), and whatever the heck else he's too busy watching some dang sporting event or other (really?  golf ALL DAY?  for 3 days in a row?!) to at least try and do for himself.   But...enough of that.   He's the way he is, he's always been this way, and obnoxious and selfish as he can be, I still love him because he's my dad and he always went to my softball games and he's always stood by me in whatever choices I've made in life.    And he thinks Dr. Husband walks on water, just like my mom does (insert eye roll here).

Anyway -- as I said, I stayed for a few days and basically spent those days cleaning, decluttering, throwing away, donating, and reorganizing most of my parents' house.   My parents are elderly and unable to move around well (even when they're NOT sick), so I was attempting to make things better for Mom.   Also did all the cooking/fetching, which I completely didn't mind.   Mom's feeling pretty punky, though -- she has to force herself to eat, and if she sits down, she falls asleep.   She's weak and dizzy and shaky, so I don't want her driving anywhere.   But with pain medications and anti-virals, I'm hoping she'll at least be able to get around on her own before long.   I went home for one day, picked up the Short One and the Wee One, and came back for another four days.    The heat's been a real bitch, though, which makes everything worse because my parents' house is not air-conditioned.

So why am I doing this, you ask?   Don't I have some siblings who can help take some of this on?   Yep, sure do.   They're all on vacation together, though, with their respective spouses.  Dr. Husband and I were not invited.   But it's a good thing we weren't, I guess.

Yeah...totally not fun.   But I would never dream of NOT doing this.   This is my MOTHER.   She took care of me, she helped me grow up, and she loved me when most other people didn't.  I more than "owe" her.   She keeps thanking me for taking care of her and my dad and the house.  I honestly can't imagine why she thinks I wouldn't.

Pop Quizzes!

I'm a pretty prolific Facebook user, and I usually update my status at least once daily.   Awhile back, I posted a status update that was a mangled phrase from my then-2-year-old and called it "Wee One's Pop Quiz".   Several of my friends/followers asked for more because they said they liked reading them and trying to figure them out, so I kept posting them.

I hope they weren't lying.

Anyway -- I think I'm going to put them here.   Wee One just turned four, so it's been making me chuckle to re-read those old baby-talk phrases.   I don't want to forget them.

They're super-fun.

Pop Quiz Phrases

1. When he asks for "go away", what does he want?


2. He shouted, "Wook!   A shoebox!"  What did he see?

3. When he says he wants to "wash wechin tree", what does he want to do?

4. If Wee One tells someone to 'use your lite ber', what does he mean? (hint -- he usually says this to Short One during very imagination-driven play)

5. What movie do you think he finished watching when he goes around saying, "Wee ha, Goboy!" ?

6. He picked up a pretty common phrase for kids -- what is he saying when he says "Uh-oh, bun-di-yos!"?

7. What's he having for dinner tonight? "Bundi-yee, chosh-sig, and a dwink!"

8. "Ba-pize!!!"

9. Wee One can't find his "ellowin" -- what toy has he lost?

10. He called someone a "rockin stinter" last night -- what did he say?

11. Singing..."Crinkle crinkle riddle car, how I how I what you are...."

12. Wee One's diction resembles the slurred speech of a drunken man most of the time...."Bresh yew!", "Bumrella"

13. "I tant do dat! I'm iddow!"

14. He's very excited because we're having "meewoof" for dinner. What's on his plate for tonight?

15. Wee One wants to see some 'dutchings'. What is he looking for?

16. He has pointed out to me that we're out of "boppers". What do I need to go shopping for?

17. Singing "the baby bumblebee" song..."I'm bringin' home mah baby bummelbee, won't my mommy peace about me....

18. He's eating "lunchables" -- what does Wee One have on his plate? (And no, it's not the pre-packaged lunchmeat/cheese/cracker combo things...at least not in this context)

19. "Mommy, Ba-pu hit me in the face with his elbow!" "Did not!" "Did too!" "Did NOT!" "You wanna knuckle swammich?"

20.  "Ho-wee ja-mo-wee, Mommy! Wook at all the SNOW!"

21. Wee One's Christmas pop-quiz: he wants more hangy-hangs. What would he like more of?

22. He's asking for a snack of "seer-row". What does he want?

23. Completely amused by his diction. On our way home from TKD, we saw two mertylcircles and stopped to get a hangabur for dinner.

24. "I fell way down from the slippy steps and I hurted my wegs and I'm not OK! Wift up my weg-sweeves and I'll show you!"


 ANSWERS BELOW











1. Gatorade
2. School bus
3. Watch 'Sesame Street'
4. Use your light saber
5. 'Toy Story' ("yee haw, cowboy!")
6. "Uh-oh, Spaghetti-O's!"
7. Spaghetti, sausage, and a drink
8. Surprise!
9. Chameleon
10. Rotten stinker
11.  "Twinkle twinkle little star..."
12. Bless you, umbrella
13. I can't do that!  I'm little!
14. Meatloaf
15. Ducklings
16. Diapers
17. *self-explanatory*
18. Vegetables
19. *self-explanatory*
20. *self-explanatory*
21. Candy canes
22. Cereal
23. Motorcycles, hamburger
24. *self-explanatory*

"This is Africa-hot"

I. Hate. Heat. And. Humidity.   The end.

I swear, not only was I born in the wrong decade, I was also meant to live in a much cooler climate.   I live in the Midwest, and right now, the current temp at just past midnight is a toasty 74 degrees with 100% humidity.  If I didn't have air conditioning, I'd die.  Pure and simple.   Tomorrow it's supposed to be in the mid-nineties with similarly lovely humidity, and I'll have to spend it at my parents' non-air conditioned house.   Gag.

I really wish I could convince them to move to a nice little one-story ranch house/apartment with air conditioning and someone to take care of their maintenance for them.   And much closer to me.   Well...maybe soon they'll see the light.

*sigh*

GPS Navigation...

Dr. Husband and I took advantage of our kids' mini-vacation with other family members and spent a couple days in Cincinnati to cruise the areas we'd like to live, should all the planets align properly and allow our house to sell and us to move there.   Considering our current state of affairs (no pun intended), I had more fun than I thought I would.

Shut up.   And get your minds out of the gutter.

Anyway -- part of what we did was drive around the city, just looking at neighborhoods and getting a feel for the areas.   Thankfully, I have a dear friend who lent us her Garmin GPS (our was stolen from our van one night several months ago).   If you don't have one yourself or never used one, then you don't know how wonderful this little piece of gadgetry is.   Just type in the address of where you want to go, tap "GO!", and this vaguely female robotic voice nags you all. the. way. there.

"In 1.8 miles, turn right on Cornell Drive." 

"In 1.5 miles, turn right on Cornell Drive."

"In 1 mile, turn right on Cornell Drive."

"In 0.5 miles, turn right on Cornell Drive."

But seriously -- I love this little gadget.   It will show you a map of where you are (and picture you driving a little blue sedan no matter what your REAL car looks like, although I hear you can change that if you've a mind to) and give you a neon-pink line to drive on so you know you're on the right road.   And it shows the roads you're passing on your route, so you know right away when you're lost.  Love it, love it, love it.

The fun part of yesterday's sojourn?    We were crawling along the freeway (I-275 is a real bitch at almost any time of the day), and Mrs. GPS Voice was telling us where we should exit...a lot.   Then, she was kind enough to ask us if maybe we wanted to switch to pedestrian mode....

When does Karma actually work?

Today the verdict was in for Casey Anthony, mother accused of killing her 2-year-old daughter Caylee.    The entire country has been hearing about this case for the last four years and about the trial for the last two months, and I won't go into any specifics here about it -- Google it if you've been living under a rock and haven't heard about it.    But suffice it to say that the verdict of "not guilty" is not a popular one with most of the country.   This woman is guilty as sin, but the prosecution just wasn't able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt and didn't have the evidence they needed to back it up.   So...Casey Anthony, child murderer, will probably be going free here in the next few days/weeks.  

Which brings me to my question about Karma.   I'm a good person.   Dr. Husband is an awesome person.   We're good parents raising good kids with good values and we try to live good lives.   So here we are, hanging by a financial thread, unable to sell our house and leave, unable to pursue other options that might help, and watching while our friends and family buy luxuries and take trips and have FUN.   And this child-murdering bitch is probably going to have a book or movie deal that will net her millions of dollars within the next year.

It's an ugly world, folks.   I know things could be worse for us, but it's still hard to hear about these criminals getting the best of everything while being terrible people.

Whoever said ALWAYS buy instead of rent...

....is an idiot.   Well...okay, maybe not an idiot.   But it sure as hell isn't working out for us.   Thanks to the lovely housing market crash, the decline of our neighborhood (and indeed our whole side of town), and the prospect of having a casino get built less than 3 miles from our house, the chances or our reasonably nice 3-bedroom house with a great backyard are not good.   At. All.

On our street alone, there are 5 houses for sale (including ours).   The last two that have sold have sold for $35-60K less than they're worth.   That doesn't bode well for us -- I have no money tree to pick from so I can make up the difference in that selling price and what's left on our mortgage.   In an area where home values are in the low 100's, the house two doors down just sold in a foreclosure sale for $45K.  

So these are our options:  rent it out, short-sale it, have Dr. Husband get a new job here in Cbus and forget about selling it altogether, or walk away from it entirely.    None of these options are attractive to me, but I guess if I HAD to choose one, I'd choose the get-a-new-job option.    But we all know how plentiful jobs are, right?

Just...shoot me.   Shoot me now.

"On Fire Moments"

Picture this:   I'm relaxing downstairs in the living room while Dr. Husband is upstairs, giving Short One a bath.   Said child was probably 18 months old or so at the time, so Wee One wasn't born yet.   I'm idly watching television and sort of hearing the goings-on upstairs through the baby monitor in the room, but not really paying attention because hey, I'm not up there.   It's HIS job tonight.

Suddenly, I hear the beginnings of noise that make the goings-on sound like they're turning into a bona-fide throughother.    Short One is objecting to his father's opinion that bath time is over.   I can hear Dr. Husband doing his best to reason with the boy, but it's not working.   Yeah, I'm paying attention now, but only because it's making me giggle helplessly.

Finally, the inevitable happens:   Dr. Husband has decided reasoning with an 18-month-old isn't working (men are so cute how they'll try and try and try), so he lifts the child out of the tub.   Short One is wet and slippery, and is also throwing a full-blown tantrum, complete with twisting and turning.   At this point, my husband says, "Short One, I wouldn't put you back in this tub right now if you were ON FIRE!"

And then he notices my bellows of laughter from the living room and remembers that the baby monitor is still on.   Yeah...that was fun :)

Can positive thinking kill a marriage?

So...hi.   I'm starting this blog to try and keep myself sane.   Not sure it's going to work yet, but maybe someone else out there can talk me down off the high place (figuratively, folks -- only figuratively, I promise).   And then maybe I'll do the same for you.

I'll have been married 17 years this coming fall, and over those years, we've had mostly crap luck.    The current mess we're going through has to do with trying to sell a house in a not-so-desirable-area of town and in a crappy housing market to boot.   We're closing in on the end of two summers trying to sell now, and I think I have to accept that it's not going to happen.   Why do we have to sell, you ask?   Well, because my husband has a job that's about 100 miles away.   That means about $800/month in gasoline, ladies and gentlemen.   Say that with me, why don't you...$800 PER MONTH.   Crap, it's nearly a house payment.

And....thanks to our crap luck, I'm doing what I do best:  bitch at my husband.   And he bitches right back, except his form of bitching means calling himself a failure and talking himself down until I feel like pond scum for daring to bring up the fact that it's JULY now and if we're going to short-sale this friggin' house, we'd better get a move on doing it or we'll be stuck here for yet ANOTHER year.

I hope I'm not in this alone.   And I'm trying to think positive and tell myself that things can't stay like this forever and that we love each other and I should just let him handle it because he IS good at it....except I'm afraid he isn't.    We're in a moderately poor financial state, even though his job is very, very good -- but we're trying to recover from years of debt incurred by the past loss of a job and trying to get a PhD while also having a wife and two kids.   But if I leave things alone and think positive, nothing happens.   If I talk to him about it, he automatically reads it as 'bitching'...but at least he gets his can in gear after a huge, blow-up fight.   Which ends with both of us leaving each other alone.

Shit.   If I wanted a roommate, I'd have stayed on campus for the rest of my life.