If There's A Will.....

As part of my ongoing "Drive 100,000 Miles In My Own City" program, I picked Youngest Daughter up from a friend's house the other day to get her home and take Oldest Daughter to her next destination.  As I was driving down the street, an old Cadillac pulled out in front of me, and proceeded to drive about 10 mph. 

I don't want to tailgate.  I really don't.  But DAMN IT ALL if I don't have a schedule to keep, and if we are all following the speed limit it will make things so much easier.  I'm getting frustrated with the Caddy when they drift left into an imaginary turn lane in the middle of the two lane street.  Yay!  They are turning left!  OH SHIT!  BOO!!!  They are actually turning right into a driveway by swinging their big ass Caddy into the middle of the street first, with NO EFFING TURN SIGNAL, and right in front of me!  I hit the brakes, all was well.

YD:  "Mom, did you almost hit that car?"
ME:  "Yes.  And this is why when you drive you should ALWAYS use your turn signals!"
YD:  "I'm glad you didn't hit that car."
ME:  "Me too!"
YD:  (contemplative) "I mean, I don't even have a will, and I have $28 and a
        bunch of dolls that I will need to leave to people."
ME:  (shocked) "Did you say a will?"
YD:  "Yeah.  Those things that tell people when you die who gets what."
ME:  "Maybe you should write it down and get it notarized."
YD:  "What's notarized?"
ME:  "It's when someone has been trained by the government to know how to decide if a document has really been signed by the person who is listed as signing it.  And you have witnesses too, like some of your friends who can verify that you said what you did."
YD:  "I'm not sure which friends I would have sign it..."
ME:  "You'll want to be careful about that, because if they find out they're getting your Lalaloopsy dolls they might push you in front of a car."
YD:  "You know, I'm too young to be worrying about these things."
ME:  "Agreed."

I wonder who is getting the $28....

Ugh. Make it stop.

Step away, candy temptress!

Must. Stop. Eating.

Someone really needs to do something about how fat I'm getting.

Ugh.

Next year I'm begging someone to give me a chocolate-covered tapeworm and a glass of cabernet.

Happy Halloween.

Day 9 - Meh.

What does it say about your day when the high point was getting a pap smear? 
But now is not a time to talk about that, I'll save up for a Whoreticulture Friday post. 

TODAY:  I got a hard time in a meeting for something I didn't do, and just about everyone at work then joking referred to me as "Troublemaker!" but after a while you just want to send a company-wide e-mail that says, "I didn't have anything to do with that, and the next person who calls me Troublemaker is going to get punched in the junk."  I returned bottles at the grocery store and figured out about an hour later that I forgot to print my receipt for my money.  I nearly walked out of the gas station without the $20 cash back I punched in, and let the employees make fun of me for that.  You know.  Petty stuff that sort of adds up after a while.  My day vastly improved around 6 p.m. when my friend Julie came over with her kids and had a waaaay overdue pizza and beer with me.  We haven't spent time together since April, so it was really good to sit on the back deck with her.  *deep breath* and then *laugh*.  Okay.  All is well in the world again.

Well, I've made good on my promise so far of quantity over quality for August, and I'm pleased to say this is my 9th day in a row of blogging.  Only 22 more days to go!  I will have you know that this is an Olympic effort, because of course the minute I walked down to my studio, George the Superpet and Youngest Daughter followed me, YD parked herself on a stool in my room, and hasn't stopped talking since.

She's very good at bringing it all back to her.

When she first came downstairs, she sat and looked at my Beatles action figures.  She quizzed me about the Beatles and asked me who my favorite one is - John, BTW - and then she told me how freaky all of the dolls are.  She then noticed the picture on the little shelf of CH and I on our wedding day, which started an avalanche of questions about our wedding and why I wore what I wore.  In thie picture, she is telling me all about the kind of wedding dress she is going to have.  The top will be like a tank top and then a huge puffy floor-length skirt.  And a long veil with flowers.

The she saw my china mosaics that need a coat of polyurethane, and started asking questions about those:  "Which one is your favorite, Mom?"  "Can I help you make one, Mom?"  "How do you decide which plate to use, Mom?"  "Can I organize them for you?"

The little hand is "organizing" by color and theme. 

And attached to an endlessly talking third grader. 

She just saw my caption and stopped talking.  She looked at me and said, "This hand is attached to someone with FEELINGS, Mom!"  She is laughing, but she really wants me to stop blogging and pay attention to her.  And so I shall.

Have a good night, Wifers.

Get In The Van. I Have Candy. Part 2

So, Part 2.
(Remember, sequels are NEVER better.)

We try to take a weeklong family vacation every summer so that I may make Shutterfly photo albums lovingly captioned with snarky descriptions of our hi-larious times together.  This way, when the kids are in their 30's and complaining about their bad childhoods, I can throw my stack of family fun and nutty hijinx on the table and say, "What now, you ungrateful bastards!?  You got nothin' on me and I have the Shutterfly books to prove it!"

As I mentioned in the last post, there was a lot of drama and even more Dramamine on the first leg of our trip.  (Fear not, Gentle Readers, the worst part of the trip is now over.)  We drove through Southern Illinois, which honestly makes Nebraska look a little exciting, and lo and behold, we saw a sign for Metropolis.  Wha?  You mean SUPERMAN's hometown?  Current Husband is a huge fan of The Man of Steel, so SNAP! We fell right into the Tourist Trap.

Poor YD was still not feeling great. 

But c'mon, honey, rally!  It's Superman!

It's a bird!  It's a plane! 

No, it's my new gigantic knockers!

Able to leap bored housewives in a single bound? 

I certainly hope so.

(And?  When am I going to learn to

suck in my gut for pictures?)

At 11 p.m., we finally rolled into our friends' driveway in Atlanta.  The family we visited moved from our hood over a year ago, and they're the kind of people who will not only let you fly your freak flag, they will raise your freak flag if it isn't up already.  Needless to say, good time were had by all.

The kids played the "I'm the floating head creeping

in the back of your picture" game all week.

We occupied the kids so we could go out drinking.

(Oh put the phone down, they did it to themselves.)

And YD organized a game of Marco Polo,

but apparently she misunderstood the rules.

We really went to Atlanta just to visit our friends, so we didn't go out too much, and besides, it was about 175 degrees outside, plus humidity, which brought the heat index to 280 degrees.  The only thing that could cure our Beiber fever was a bartender with cold chardonnay and a moustache tattooed on his finger.  We were in luck.

He is known in Downtown Decatur as Chardonnay Tony.  

We stayed up talking into the night.  (Back to the friends, not Chardonnay Tony.) We awoke in mid-morning, and drank the best French press coffee ever. (Me and Tony.  Obviously.) We ate.  We drank.  We lounged.  Then we drank a little more.  We watched the funniest damn PBS special ever, which my friend Angie gave to me and has absolutely changed my life, simply called "Ferrets".  It about ferret breeders and the biggest ferret show in the country, The Buckeye Bash.  Here is a little snippet for you, but I HIGHLY recommend you buy your own copy:

That damn ferret song goes through my head all the time.  Then I made them watch this classic movie, because doesn't EVERYONE sit with friends they haven't seen in a year and watch ferret videos and cheesy 70's movies?

Oh yes, Barbra.  My love for you is ageless and evergreen.

And thank you for covering Kris Kristofferson's nipple.

There are so many terrific things about spending time with people you love, but of course, all good things must come to an end.  We pulled away from Hotlanta and headed for the hills of Tennessee, where we enjoyed our Family Stalker Adventure in Nashville.  Stay tuned for Part 3 of "Get In The Van, I Have Candy".  It's like you are trapped on vacation WITH me.  The call is coming from inside the van...get out!

   

The Great Negotiator

I see I've been remiss this week in my blog life. Effing full time job. 

I love my job, but man, I had a good gig when I was home full time.  Yes, I did lots of dishes and laundry and swept the dust bunnies under the couch and leafed through every paper that came home from school and made cookies and volunteered, but there were lots of days when George the Superpet and I would spoon in bed at 3 p.m. and take a quick nap together until the kids walked in at 3:30, or George the Superpet and I would read novels on my dreamy huge screened in back porch and drink coffee, or my neighbor would come over and have a frosty beer at 2:30 and we'd watch the preschool girls play in the backyard until school was getting out, and I could blog blog blog to my heart's content.

*sigh*  I miss those days.

My parents have a grapefruit grove in Texas, part of their crazy retirement menagerie, and last week they told me the grapefruit are ripe and ready to be picked, but the picker foreman couldn't come to their grove because he couldn't find any pickers to work for him.  He has used illegals, but doesn't anymore because they get busted, but he said anyone with a US social security number won't work for him because then they'll jeapordize their welfare payments.  Hmmm.  Why, as a stay at home mom, wasn't I getting paid to stay home and raise my kids?  Sounds like a pretty good deal.  "I can't work because then the government won't pay me."  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important, and now I am working full time and paying taxes to the government.  Thus concludes the first ever "ADITW Political Moment!"  And don't think for a moment that you can guess what I am politically because I am a mutt.  It confounds all of my liberal and conservative friends.

SO - BACK TO THE POINT OF THE BLOG TODAY

Last Tuesday was Youngest Daughter's birthday, so the world stopped for a few days while we had a bank holiday and celebrated.  She turned 8, and I can see how the youngest ones own you.  I look at the teenager, and the pre-teen, and then I look at this little pixie with princess pajamas and Littlest Pet Shop undies and a billion stuffed animals in her room and I realize those days are coming to an end, and the next chapter is looming.  As long as you have young kids, you can be young as well.  I'm going to blink and be an empty nester waiting for my knee replacement.

Current Husband and I took YD to get a new bike, because her last bike was about two feet tall and had training wheels.  On the way to get the bike, CH and I had to power up at Starbucks and got YD some coffee cake.  When I walk to the table, CH and YD are in deep discussion.  I ask what they are talking about.

CH:  "She is telling me why she should get her ears pierced early."
YD:  "Yeah, because everyone in my class has them and I don't and I look like a baby."
ME:  "You don't look like a baby."
YD:  "Even BABIES have their ears pierced and I don't."

CH looks at me and winks, like "let's go ahead and do it."

ME: (caving) "Well, it's a lot of responsibility.  Can you handle it?"
YD:  "Yes, I will keep them clean and take care of them, I promise."
ME:  "Getting ears pierced is a Big Girl thing, like cleaning your room.  If you get your ears pierced, you'll have to keep your room clean."

SCREECH!

YD:  "Alright! I won't get my ears pierced!"
ME:  (stunned) "Wait a minute.  Do you mean that if I was going to get your ears pierced right now, but it means you have to clean your room, you'll say no?"
YD:  "You guys are just looking for a reason to say no anyway."
ME:  "Well I was going to get your ears pierced, but now I know you aren't ready."

I must admit that as a bona fide Bad Housekeeper, I respect her aversion to cleaning her room.  There are books to be read!  Things to do!  The room will just get messed up again anyway, right?  But part of the reason I had three kids was to get some help cleaning the damn house, and now they are jumping ship?  No way, Jose.

We spent the next hour picking out a bike and basket and bell, and YD started to reconsider her position.  She dropped little comments about how she could probably keep her room clean, and how she really should get her ears pierced.  I'm weak.  We pulled into Claire's and let them pierce her for the first time.  She was very brave and proud, and I felt a victory.  It takes very little to make younger kids happy.  It's much tougher with the older ones.  And even though CH and I consider ourselves to err on the side of discipline, I realized I was having these philosophical thoughts about age and happiness as I was cleaning YD's room before her friends came over.

I am such a sucker. 

Happy Birthday YD!

We're All Very Busy at Home

First, I apologize to the two people who missed Whoreticulture Friday. My budget was due at work, and while I would much rather have been blogging about sex toys or vaginal dryness, I had to project how much money my company will spend on hookers in 2011.


That joke never gets old for me. I love my job.

I get home on Friday night, and Current Husband tells me there is a note in Youngest Daughter's backpack I need to read.  Great.  I open her folder, and there is a slip of paper in there with a space for a parent signature.  It is her spelling test, and she got a whopping 2 out of 10 on it.  This is a test taken by the girl who puts on her big fake eyeglass frames every night and reads for a half hour to her stuffed animals, and is in the extensions program at school.  Translation:  Complete Lack of Effort.  Then, to make matters worse, YD's teacher wrote a note on the back that essentially said YD had not turned in more than a couple of sheets of homework this QUARTER, and when pressed, told her teacher, "Well, we're all very busy at home."

Excusez-moi?

I'm hard pressed to think about what has YD so busy at home that she can't do her homework.  Then again, she's seven, so her dance card is pretty full.  There is iCarly to watch, and a Littlest Pet Shop game to play on her DS, and siblings to annoy.  She always takes time out to roll on the floor with George the Superpet, who outweighs her by 50 pounds and almost always ends up accidentally rolling on her hair.  She also reserves an hour each night to press me on when she can have a friend over, or when she will receive some hard-earned candy.  There is the half hour she spends telling me she is cleaning her room, when it looks mysteriously the same when I walk in. 

Yes, she is far too busy at home to do her homework.  There is an empire to run, and Rome didn't build itself.  I'm sorry Mrs. S...I'm on YD's side here.  We are FAR too busy at home to be bothered with homework, because God wouldn't have allowed us to invent technology or Oreos if He didn't intend for us to enjoy them.  Are YOU going to mess with Divine Intent, Mrs. S?  I think not.

As long as we are talking about messing with beings we know exist but cannot see, let's check back in with Melvin, the Tooth Fairy.  YD lost another tooth on Friday, and she left another detailed message for Melvin, but this one felt....darker.  

"Dear Melvin, 
How do I communikate with you when I havnt lost a tooth?  What are the names of the tooth fairys of the kids in my class?  Are you real?  Gabe and Lily say you are not real, so you should stop leaving them stuff.
Love,
YD"

Melvin wrote back:

"Dear YD,
I cannot give out the names of the other Tooth Fairies, it is against the rules.  Tooth Fairies are real only to those who believe.  You are a good girl, but you need to start turning in your homework.
Love,
Melvin"

She is crafty, that YD, I will give her that.  And the next time my boss wants a fiscal year budget turned in on time when I feel like blogging about Whoreticulture, I'm going to turn it in 20% finished.  When he wants to know why I didn't turn in my work, I'm going to take a lesson from YD's playbook, and tell him that I would love to turn in a budget, but I am VERY busy at home.  

I'm sure he'll understand.

Happy Monday, have a great week!

UPDATE:  I told YD that if she doesn't get her homework done, she might not move into 3rd grade, and then she wouldn't be in class with her friends anymore.  Her response?  "That's okay, the first graders are really nice and I already play with a bunch of them." 

A Little Help - What's a Virgin?

Last Saturday, a long-awaited date came up on the calendar.  Eclipse was released on DVD.

Oldest Daughter and I are Twilight freaks.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, and if having a crush on a ficticious sparkly vampire (or the hot borderline jailbait British kid that plays him) is wrong, I don't wanna be right.  And let's get one thing straight...I don't watch Harry Potter and think about getting it on with Daniel Radcliffe.  But Rob Pattinson I would happily spank.  I have standards.

So it isn't enough that I've read the book...a number of times.  Or saw the movie in the theater two times.  OD and I have watched the DVD three times since Saturday.  I can explain it no better than a meth addict explains why they like meth.  There is no rational explanation.  But a margarita, a Twilight movie, and my flannel pjs go together like Larry, Mo and Curly.  Or ice cream, brownies and fudge.  Or teenagers, acne, and Facebook.  Or beer, NASCAR and Winnebagos.

Let me make one criticism of the movie - Jacob?  He's hot.  He's buff.  He's what I would expect a guy who turns into a werewolf looks like.  Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, I buy it.  But the other dudes in the pack in Eclipse?  They have muffin tops bigger than mine.  It really should be in their contracts that they have to work out with Taylor Lautner, because if you are going to spend the entire movie running around shirtless, give me something to look at, not be uncomfortable about.  If I was going to be in a movie shirtless, I would work the freeweights and get a boob lift, AS A FAVOR TO THE VIEWER.  You're welcome.

So we watch the movie with another family the first time.  Youngest Daughter and her second grade buddy are busy chanting for Jacob and cheering for the wolves in the first movie.  It's cute.  The second time, we watch it with just our family.  The Son and YD are asking questions and then shushing each other when the other one talks.  It keeps them somewhat occupied.  The third time, YD is sitting on one side of me, and The Son is on the other side.  It's the part when Bella and Charlie are talking in the kitchen, and he is asking her if she and Edward are taking precautions.  Bella ends up saying, "Okay, Dad?  I'm a virgin!" and they both get uncomfortable and leave the room.  YD turns to me.

"Mom?  What's a virgin?"

"Oh God, honey, it's been so long, I don't know," is what I think.  I know YD doesn't know what a virgin is - when she and a friend were into the movie "The Grease", as YD called it, they sang the song Sandra Dee a LOT.  When her friend would sing "Lousy with virginity", YD would say, "No, it's 'Virginia-t', like my middle name."  "OOOHHH, I get it" her friend would say, and they'd go on singing.

"Shh! We're watching a movie!" is what I say.

YD whispers..."MOM! What is a VIRGIN!?!"

The Son is shaking with laughter, eyes big, watching me.  The older kids live for moments like this.

"Well...um...it's when someone is very careful....they don't do a lot of crazy kissing or anything...." the scene changes to Bella trying to seduce Edward into tapping that.  We all watch in silence.  I'm hoping The Virgin Moment has passed.  YD is watching intently as Bella wraps her leg around Edward's rock hard...vampire body...and starts to unbutton his shirt.

"Is THAT what a virgin does Mom?"  YD is now confused.  Bella says she is a virgin, and then in the next scene is dry-humping Rob Pattinson.  Well honey, that's what some virgins do.  I had a friend in high school who we referred to as "The 69 Queen" - and I know you read this and you know I love you - and she proudly graduated as a virgin.  But her boyfriend all during high school always had a smile on his face.

"Um, no honey, a virgin probably wouldn't be getting quite so...crazy."  I don't know why, but the word 'crazy' just kept popping up in my head.  Probably because it was an easier word than 'penetration' or 'hymen' or 'intercourse'.  It's just so..so...crazy!

I thought about going with the whole Virgin Mary comparison, but still, Mary ended up with Baby Jesus and it still waded into waters I wasn't comfortable swimming in.  YD knows about penises and vaginas, she just isn't aware yet that they are interlocking parts.  I finally tried a strategy that addressed genital involvement.

"Bella just means Edward doesn't see her private parts."  I stared at the TV.  Edward was telling Bella he wanted to protect her virtue and asking her to marry him.  Stick with the theme, YD.

"Ew. Why would she want him to do that?"

"She wouldn't.  That's why we like Bella.  Yay!  They're getting married!" And finally, YD was distracted.  A wedding!  Like Bridal Barbie!  And we could just forget about vaginas for now.

YD might see the wedding scene, but Breaking Dawn will conveniently break down when the honeymoon starts.  But Mommy?  Mommy might have to watch that one alone.  Brown Chicken Brown Cow....

I Don't Want To, Either.

First, can I just say that I had one of those rare weekends of pure bliss. Why? Because it was completely ordinary and uneventful.


On Friday we traveled a few hours to see Oldest Daughter perform in Junior Honors Orchestra (have I mentioned that yet? I'm a little puffed up about it, probably because I never played an instrument, and if she is accomplished, then by extension I must be as well.)  We drove home and stopped at McDonalds twice - once for crispy fries and sodas, another time for ice cream - and Current Husband and OD dropped me off at the door of The Gap Outlet for 10 minutes of power shopping while they got said ice cream.  Poor CH.  He thinks I can't do much in 10 minutes.  He should really stop underestimating me.

My Mother In Law drove nearly 3 hours to be home when my youngest two got home, and she helped them make cookies and gave them pizza and brought pumpkin bread and let them talk about what they want for Christmas for five hours straight, so it's Hero Time in the Grandma department.  She stayed for The Son's basketball game, which was awesome, and then she left for home.  I turned off my cell phone at the game, and haven't turned it back on yet.  I didn't check e-mail all weekend.  I didn't even get the mail on Saturday.

Isn't he cute?  Sigh.

We took the kids to see Harry Potter, complete with requisite popcorn and peanut M&M's mixed up (if you haven't tried this artery-clogging treat, you are totally missing out on the joy that is the perfect mix of salty and sweet.)  Brief review, because I am a full-service blog:  Harry Potter was good.  There were two parts where I covered up Youngest Daughter's eyes because it was scary.  However, it felt like exactly what it is - the first part of a two part movie, and it was too long, but that's okay because you really don't want Harry Potter to ever end.  C'mon, JK Rowling, can't Harry and Ginny  and Ron and Hermione have kids and start a whole new series?

After the movie, we all went to Village Inn for breakfast at 4 p.m.  Awesome.  Then home for a game of Scrabble and college football.  Slept in this morning and CH made coffee.  Spent the day unpacking more boxes and getting OD's room in order.  It is so cool, I want to live up there.  We caught up on laundry, ate leftovers, had a generally satisfying time. 

Until Bedtime.

Youngest Daughter had been misbehaving off and on during the day, getting hopped up on Grandma Cookies and milk.  I get that.  But at bedtime, we went into her room, and I saw the pile of freshly laundered, folded clothes on her bed.

ME:  "Why didn't you put away your clothes?"
YD:  "I didn't feel like it."
SCREECH. My head spins around 360 degrees.  HUH?
ME: "What?"
YD: (slowly) I. Didn't. Feel. Like. It.
Let me say that I am not a big spanker, but this did merit a small swat.  A "Can I please get your attention" swat.  Easily confused with a "Oh, I brushed a mosquito off of you" swat.
YD:  "HEY!"
ME:  "That is for thinking you can tell me you won't do what I ask you to do because you don't feel like it.  (Insert 10 minute speech about what I don't feel like doing here. This is when time actually stops, and everyone in the family freezes, unable to see, hear, or speak.  Their eyes get glassy, and drool seeps out of their mouths.) And because of that, you are grounded from TV tomorrow too."
I would like to point out that YD was COMPLETELY nonplussed by the swat.
YD:  "So, how much TV are we talking about?"
ME:  (in disbelief that she doesn't care) "ALL DAY. NO TV."
YD:  "Okay, I'll read a book instead."
CURSES!  She has turned a punishment into an admirable activity!
ME:  "Um, okay.  Good night.  I love you."
YD:  (brightly) "I love you too, Mom!  Good night!"

I walk slowly in to the living room and tell CH the story.  We are agreeing that this particular child is crafty, and unaffected by punishment.  As if to punctuate what we are saying, YD skips into the room, grabs her iPod, and skips back out of the room, happy as a little bunny rabbit.

Dang it. She's pretty cute too.

She seems so happy.  I'm taking this as a life lesson, and the next time my boss asks me to do something, I'm going to say, "I don't feel like it."  I have a feeling it's going to end well.  Probably with me in my room, reading a book.  Or the want ads.

Have a great week!

The Tooth Fairy is Lazy?

Last week, Youngest Daughter lost another tooth.

She's seven, and in that phase when the teeth are falling out of them, and the subsequent teeth look enormous and out of place in the little mouth and they're all different lengths and sizes and you start thinking, "Well this will keep her out of prom".  But then it all works out to some extent, and even if the teeth grow in and they're somewhat straight your dentist will inevitably send you to an orthodontist because they golf together, and then the orthodontist will say, "Her teeth aren't PERFECT but they're close enough to perfect that if you'll just cough up $4000 or more and take unpaid personal time at work to bring her in for appointments over the next two to six years I can get them PERFECT."  Unless you are me, and have five (yes, FIVE) unexpected wisdom teeth and then the prior two years of nighttime headgear wearing, four years of braces, and two years of retainers will all be for naught because your teeth are going back to their British, pre-ortho care state.

But I'm not bitter and that's what's important. 

What was I talking about?  Oh yes, YD and her teeth.  So a month or so ago, she lost a tooth and very carefully placed it in the pillow and went to sleep all hopeful, only to wake up with her hopes dashed because our tooth fairy sucks.  YD was a little upset, but that night very strategically placed her tooth fairy pillow in the middle of her room, because maybe the tooth fairy just missed it.  The next morning, we all woke to the sound of YD's exasperated yelling, "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!  I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT THE TOOTH FAIRY STILL DIDN'T COME."  Oh boy.  The following morning, the tooth fairy came, and ponied up a little extra change for the late charge.  Tooth Fairy?  YD may forgive, but she never forgets.

A few days ago, YD lost another tooth.  She very carefully placed her tooth fairy pillow out, and awoke to another disappointment.  Our tooth fairy apparently believes that children should experience disappointment early and often, so they aren't shocked when they get into the real world.  It's the responsible thing to do.

I was approached at breakfast.
YD:  "Mom, the tooth fairy didn't show up, AGAIN."
ME:  "It seems that we have a very lazy tooth fairy."
YD:  "I think the tooth fairy is you."
Oldest Daughter, now alert:  "So you think Mom is lazy?"
YD:  "Well!  She likes to sleep in on the weekends!"
(The other children stop eating and look up in interest to see how I'm going to take this.)
ME:  "I am sure the tooth fairy is very hard working and just can't manage to fit all of her work into one day.  She'll pull through, she always does." 
(Bored, the other children go back to their breakfasts.  They've heard this all before.)


YD decided to rethink her strategy.  Perhaps she should engage the tooth fairy, maybe get to know him/her a little better.  YD wrote a note to the tooth fairy, which I dearly wish I could scan, because it is so much better in her little handwriting, but sadly the scanner is still not unpacked.  Her is her tome to the tooth fairy:

Dear Tooth Fairy,
I don't now your actually real name, but will you tell me thank you.  How tall are you? Right I mean draw a picher of you on the back of this paper.  How do you now wen someone lost a tooth?  What is your favorite food and color?  What do you do with the teeth?  Wich restaurant is your favorite?  How much money does everyone get?  I look like this (insert YD's self portrait, done in ball point pen).  Are you a boy or a girl?  You write on the other side.

I saw this note, and with some exasperation went to Current Husband and said, "What the heck is this?  Are you behind this interrogation?" and CH laughed, pleased with himself, and said, "Well, if the Tooth Fairy is going to flake out, she is going to have to answer some questions!" and I said, "Well I guess the Tooth Fairy won't be doing you any favors soon". 

The next morning, YD did get her money, and the following response:

Dear YD,
There are lots of tooth fairies, because there are lots of teeth.  My name is Melvin.  I am two and a half inches tall.  I know when a tooth falls out because it is really loud.  My favorite color is green, and I like to eat at Buffalo Wild Wings.  I return the teeth to the factory to be cleaned and re-used.  How much money is given depends on the market price of silver on that day, it is a very complicated process.  Thanks for the tooth and the note,
Melvin

YD was so excited.  "I have the same tooth fairy as Eddie!  His tooth fairy is named Melvin too!"  What are the odds that I would get so lucky?  Eddie, who is in YD's class and only lives a block or two away, also has a tooth fairy named Melvin!  Of course!  This is Melvin's territory, and as YD knows, there have been a LOT of teeth falling out around these parts lately.  This explains everything.  The tooth fairy isn't LAZY...the tooth fairy is BUSY.  Big difference.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, older children.  Now someone go out and get me some Buffalo Wild Wings, stat.  And to you, CH, Mr. 1000 Questions?  The answer is NO.

The Confession Stand

Have I mentioned that Youngest Daughter is adorable, and yet, calculated?

Every Sunday, The Son has a football game.  Youngest Daughter has been excited for every game, and at first I thought, "How cute.  She is supporting her brother!" About 20 minutes into the first game, I realized that this was another instance of it really being all about her.  Here are the reasons YD supports Rising Knights football:

1. It is outdoors with a playset.
2. A number of her small friends are there as well.
3. They sell candy.

YD is a total crack addict, but for sugar.  We are constantly monitoring her sugar intake, but she somehow gets through our radar.  This is because, since the day she was born, YD has worked the Baby of the Family system.  If Mom says no, go to Dad.  If Dad says no, go to Oldest Daughter.  OD says no, go to The Son.  If he says no, try the neighbors.  Someone always has a treat they are willing to give someone adorable!

A perfect example of this is playdates.  During the time our house has been on the market, YD has begged for playdates, only to have me say no because when she has little friends over, the house inevitably fills up with 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals.  Then, when we were moving, I packed up most of her toys so I could seamlessly move her 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals.  Now that we are in the new house, her room is a little smaller, and we are trying to figure out WHERE to put 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals, along with six American Girls Dolls and their period-appropriate wardrobes, 5,000 Polly Pocket items, 15,000 Puppy/Kitty/Pony in my Pocket items, and a library of books.  There currently isn't space in her room for a playdate.  So what does YD do?  She starts telling other mothers the following:  "Mrs. X, I would LOVE to come over to play at your house, but you have to call my mom and ask me over."

You see the thought process.  YD is what they call a "self-starter" in the working world.

SO, we are at the games, and YD is playing with friends, and she inevitably approaches us for money.

"Can I go to the Confession Stand?"  YD asks.

Oh, how I love this.  First, we are at a Catholic high school, so the thought of getting nachos and absolution at the same time is pretty awesome and appropro.  Second, I love the concept of confessing one's love for junk food.

"Forgive me, Booster, for I have sinned.  I would like a pack of peanut M&Ms, a Ring Pop, nachos, and a Dr. Pepper.  I confess, I am a junk food junkie."

Booster:  "You are forgiven, my child.  Take your food and do five Hail Marys.  That will be $3.50."

YD takes her money, and insists on spending every nickel.  She will get a dollar, buy herself a Ring Pop and an Airhead, and then ask the Confession Stand people how much money is left.  Then, she finds other kids who aren't sporting Ring Pops and buys candy until she is broke.  It's a lovely concept, but I've had to talk with her about food allergies, kids who can't have sugar, and asking parents' permission.  What is YD's response to so much lecturing?

"Mom, I'm learning about counting money at school, and I'm sharing."

Oooh, the double defense of education and cooperation.  I confess, she has me stumped.

Happy Monday, have a nice week!

My True Gap Rewards

On Saturday morning, I packed up Youngest Daughter and we took off on a five-hour car trip to Omaha, Nebraska.  I grew up outside of Omaha, but once my sister and I started having children, my parents decided to move 24 hours away to the Southernmost tip of Texas.  After 13 summers of 110 degree temps coupled with 100% humidity, my parents decided to buy a house on the Elkhorn River near Omaha so they could summer up north.  And who doesn't dream about a summer home in Nebraska?

One of the few benefits to this very long, very drawn out car ride is the Gap Outlet located about 90 minutes to my west.  I am a total Gap Girl - my uniform is khaki pants, capris or shorts, coupled with various colored t-shirts and cardigans.  Armed with my $10 Rewards coupon and my Gap Visa, I pulled into the outlet center.  Fifteen minutes later, I was checking out with around $100 worth of stuff, when I see other shoppers pulling out a computer printout with their Friends and Family coupons on them for an additional 30% off.  DOH!  I forgot about that!  And mine is sitting in my computer inbox, all lonesome.  No worries, the guy at the register tells me I can get a price adjustment within 7 days of purchase.  I'll just swing back in on my way home, and voila!  Let the savings commence!

We drove to my parents' place, saw my sister and her daughter, and had a lovely time.  There is nothing like falling asleep in a second floor room surrounded with open windows, hearing the cottonwood leaves rustling in the cool nighttime breeze.  Perfect sleeping weather.  Add that to the fact that YD spent the night at her cousin's house and I had a full bed to myself, and I give the night an A++.  I woke to Mom brewing coffee and the birds singing....it's too much bliss!

I was lucky enough to see two of my high school friends (the ones who removed my skin tag) and I have pictures, but I can't post them because my laptop is still virused out and I don't know how to upload pics on our main computer...or I am too lazy to figure it out.  Anyway, my friend printed a Gap 30% Friends and Family coupon on her computer.  After a couple of hours at the pool with them, I took off with just enough time to make it into the door of The Gap to do my biznez with them.  I start driving and just outside of Omaha, YD falls asleep.  Could it be going any more smoothly?

About 30 minutes away from The Gap, YD wakes up and starts whimpering.  Her stomach hurts.  When are we going to stop?  I tell her we are stopping in 30 minutes and she can make it, because YD frequently invokes the Hurting Stomach privilege in the car to force us to pull over and eventually get her a snack and drink.  Soon, YD is actually crying.  "You know all of those times when I lie about my stomach hurting?  This is NOT ONE OF THOSE TIMES!"  I tell her we will pull over in 10 minutes, and I start scouting the road for prospective pull over sites.  I have nothing.  I'm in Eastern Iowa on Interstate 80 with about five billion truckers driving 18-wheelers 20 miles over the speed limit with a narrow shoulder.  It's getting worse.  I'm thinking to myself, "Stay calm.  She is not really that sick, it's just car sickness, and when she gets out of the car she will be fine."  

I look at the clock.  The Gap closes in 15 minutes, and I can only do this transaction at this particular Gap Outlet, which is 90 minutes west of my house.  YD is whimpering.  The exit appears.  Thank you, Jesus!  We pull into the parking lot with 10 minutes to spare.  I get YD out of the car and ask her how she is doing.  She says she's okay, but her tummy still hurts.


ME:  "Do you need to go to the bathroom?  Will that help?"
YD:  "No.  It just hurts."
ME:  "Does it hurt like a stabby pain or a dull pain?"
YD:  "It just hurts."
ME:  "Is there anything that sounds good, like a water?"
YD:  "No.  Nothing sounds good.  It just hurts."
ME:  "Can you make it into the Gap?  Mommy will NOT SHOP.  I am only returning these pants.  Can you do it?"
YD:  "Let's go before they close."
Atta girl!


We go in, and I go to the young clerk.  I say to her, "I want to return these khakis, and then I want to use this coupon to get my 30% off adjustment on the balance."  I know this is what I said.  She took the khakis, returned them, and then rang them up again at 30% off and handed them back to me.  "There, you saved $6!"  Thanks for playing, but that's not what I said.  This turned into 5 minutes of me explaining what I wanted.  The manager had to come over.  She said, "Who told you to come back?" and I said, "I don't know who it was.  It was the guy who had a Gap nametag and was on that side of the counter."  The woman smiled at me in pity and said, "Well next time, just ask if we have an extra coupon, because he could've just rung it up for you with the discount the first time."


Oh.  Thanks.  Because I left Nebraska early just so I could drive four hours to make it here on time with my carsick kid.  No worries.  NEXT TIME I will know what to do.  And I will start doing that in every store I visit.  We finally got the transaction done, and YD and I walked out of the door into the parking lot, where she stopped in her tracks and power vomited all over the Gap Outlet parking lot.


YD looked up at me, her eyes bugged out a bit, vomit in her hair, on her legs, on her shoes, on my shoes, and she said, "I thought that lady would NEVER stop talking."


And that, my friends, is my true Gap Reward.  Because the mom who drags her carsick child into the Gap to save an extra $25 in the middle of a long car trip perhaps deserves to be vomited on.  So sorry YD, and from now on, I will believe every stomach ache is a real one.

 

The Sound of Silence

"Hello darkness my old friend...

I've come to talk with you again..."

I wish I could play that song on my blog, but alas, those day have come to an end.  I've read over and over how people hate it when your blog starts with the auto-play on music.  I once had another blogger visit A Day in the Wife and proceed to send me an e-mail outlining everything that was wrong with my blog:

• hate the music, and so do your followers
• don't like word verification on comments
• too hard to find my e-mail address
• I was too "small time"

...and then she ended it by saying, "You're killing me, Smalls".  All I did to open myself up to this was leave a comment on her blog that one of her posts was funny.  Her blog has over 600 followers, so I think she thought she was doing me a big favor, but I thought to myself, "That's IT, I am auto-playing music FOREVER!"  Because you know why I write this blog?  It's not to win an award.  It's not to get more followers than anyone else.  It's not to impress people (CLEARLY!!!)  It's because I like to write, and I think everyday life is funny.  And nothing I say is terribly original to me, it's only sometimes funny because this is stuff that happens to everyone in some way, shape or form.  I also happen to like my followers.  You're funny people.

But do you notice how this Smalls Talk happened about four months ago, and it's still on my mind?  At least I'm not bitter, right!?

Anyhoo...the other day, Stacey Ballis posted something on Twitter that was funny, and since I am now stalking her, I was going to respond with a Vanilla Ice comment.  Since I like to be accurate when I quote Vanilla Ice, I went to playlist.com and searched for the song "Ice Ice Baby".   When I hit Play, my computer went "All right, Stop!" and promptly downloaded a virus and literally stopped.  This is the fourth time I've picked up a virus on my laptop, which only started happening when I started getting music for the blog from playlist, and so, I bid playlist.com a fair adieu.  It's sad, really, because I love music and it's been such a fun tongue-in-cheek thing to put a matching song with a blog post, but Saturday was the day the music died.  My laptop is still not working, so I have to use Current Husband's computer at night.

The other person affected by my dying laptop is Youngest Daughter.  She is a big gaming junkie, and loves to play Club Penguin, Nick Jr., Disney, Webkinz, and Class Brain, all of whom can be suspected of sending viruses, or at least loads of spyware, to my computer.  Every day, YD asks if she can play my computer, and every day I have to tell her no.  She gets very sad and then walks away to read Captain Underpants books, which I suppose is the lesser of two evils.

Last night, YD and I made a Sam's Club run.  School has started, so I needed bread, lunchmeat, chips, fruit, carrots, juice boxes, cereal, waffles, after school snacks, and caffeine in various forms.  We spent about $250, a full cart night, and on the way home we were listening to the radio when the ad came on for Double My Speed Dot Com.  The people were giving their testimonials about how they went to Double My Speed Dot Com and their computers are now miraculously like new - the cynic in me says that all of their passwords and account numbers have been downloaded as well.  Pretty soon, a small voice pipes up from the carseat in the back:

"Oh great, NOW you tell us, after we've wasted all of this money on food!"

There she is, the Child of 2010, who would rather play Club Penguin than eat.  Super.  I've made my child into an Internet junkie.  "And the people bowed and prayed...to the neon God they made...."  Do you think I'll get Mother of the Year?  There it is again...The Sound of Silence.

Happy Hump Day!  (Ooh, I want to play "Humpty Dance" now...do the Humpty Hump...)

Finally, A Real Day in the Wife

This blog is called "A Day in the Wife", and yet, ironically enough, I never write about that.  Today will be different, because it has been my typical clusterf**k of a day, and I think my readers should know how bad I really am at this whole Wifery thing.

7:25 a.m.
The alarm has apparently been going off, but I have somehow missed it.  I have to leave to take Oldest Daughter to String Camp in 20 minutes.  She needs at least 40 minutes to get ready.  I wake her up and take my verbal beating, knowing there is coffee in my future.


7:28 a.m.
I walk into the kitchen to make coffee.  We are out of coffee filters.  The crying begins.


7:50 a.m.
We leave for String Camp, late again.  Oldest Daughter is angry and I am starting to shake from lack of caffeine.


8:15 a.m.
I get coffee at Starbucks, but my Starbucks card is .52 short.  I have to leave the coffee, go back out to the car to get money, and come back in to pay.  There are four angry people waiting in line behind me, and because they couldn't override it on the register, so they had to wait for me.  Suck it up, people, I NEED that coffee!


9:10 a.m.
Other children wake up, and demand breakfast.  I am out of cereal and bagels.  Luckily, I have toaster strudel.  I make the toaster strudel, but Youngest Daughter refuses to eat it because the design I made with the frosting is unacceptable, asks for Dots candy instead.  I openly lose my temper for the third time today.  YD eats toaster strudel with bad design, and somewhere, Michael Graves shakes his head at the tragedy of it all.

10:00 a.m.
I take YD, her brother, and his friend to PetSmart so they can look at snake accessories.  The Son and his friend both have corn snakes, which go on "playdates" to each others tanks.  I warn The Son that snakes are not pack animals, and they will probably kill each other eventually.  On the plus side, this will get me out of buying frozen baby rodents to feed said snake.  YD asks if we can go to the Target next door for a free cookie.  While out, I get a text from Oldest Daughter's cello teacher that the audition clinic for the local symphony youth string ensemble has been moved to today at 1.  Is OD planning on attending?  He strongly encourages it.  And we will have to reschedule today's lesson.  I panic, trying to quickly rearrange the day and figure out where and when this clinic is taking place.


Noon
Pick up OD from string camp and tell her she is going to ensemble clinic in 45 minutes.  She begins to cry, says she is not ready, tells me she doesn't want to go, and blames me for the symphony reschedule.  Because I hold unlimited power in the universe.  I spill coffee on my shirt.


12:50 p.m.
Yelling at everyone to "get in the van, we are late for the clinic!"  Everyone is crying:  OD because she is freaking out, YD because there is no candy involved, me because I am late AGAIN, and The Son because he is sad that everyone else is sad.  Make note to self to Google which Norman Rockwell painting corresponds to this moment.


1:05 p.m.
Pull up at audition site, comment on how empty parking lot is.  Go inside, ask secretary where clinic is, she looks at me like I asked her how to make cat salad in Portuguese.


1:09 p.m.
Force OD to text friend, find out clinic is tomorrow, cello teacher messed up.  I swear profusely.  OD is relieved.  YD asks for Skittles to celebrate.

1:15 p.m.
Get home to find gas company employee standing in my yard next to the For Sale sign, smoking, with the new gas line pipe sticking up out of my yard three feet from his cigarette.  Briefly hope he flicks his butt that way.  Instead, he opts for Port-O-John across street from my house (Did I mention my house is on the market?).  Notice full McDonalds bag on my curb next to where the gas company truck was parked about an hour earlier.  Hope prospective buyers avoid our house today.


1:45 p.m.
Realize in cello panic, I forgot to give anyone lunch.  Vegetarian daughter wants mac and cheese.  YD does not want mac and cheese, she asks for Twizzlers.  The Son doesn't feel like mac and cheese either, he would prefer turkey sandwich.  Children start fighting about which lunch would be best.  I leave to find Aleve bottle and a corner in which to rock.


2:43 p.m.
Remember I intended to make barbequed ribs in slow cooker for dinner, but they are supposed to cook on low for 6-8 hours.  I brown them in a frying pan and put them in the slow cooker on high, hoping that 6-8 hours on low heat means 3-4 hours on high heat will suffice.  Suspect my meat math is off.  Hope family isn't hungry until 9 p.m. and this does not result in multiple counts of food poisoning.


4:17 p.m.
Remember The Son goes to resident camp over an hour away on Sunday, and I haven't sent in physical forms.  Call camp and find out there is still a $285 balance.  Secretary urges me to get forms in mail tomorrow, since they are supposed to be mailed in 4 weeks prior to camp.  Crap.  (NOTE:  Same thing happened last year.  And possibly year before.)


5:43 p.m.
Call Current Husband to remind him that I am meeting friends for margarita and Eclipse, and need to leave by 6:10.  He tells me he will be home in 10 minutes.

6:13 p.m.
Current Husband arrives at home.  George the Superpet is jumping on him.  OD, YD, and The Son all run to him, grateful there is a non-swearing, non-caffeinated parent on the premises.  CH comments on how good dinner smells, and I say, "You can try it now, but it may not be done until 8 p.m.  Have fun!" and I leave.

7:45 p.m.
Two margaritas under my belt.  Rob Pattinson is filling up the screen in front of me.  I have a Diet Coke, and am surrounded by eight great women.  My day just took a turn for the better.

10:45 p.m.
Arrive at home calm and relaxed.  Walk in door.  The Son announces he has a friend over for the night and they will be playing with the snakes.  Oldest Daughter says she has plans with a friend tomorrow, and could I send lunch with her so she doesn't have the awkward vegetarian moment?  YD comes yelling out of the back room, seemingly ready to stay up for another three hours.  She asks if she can have a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  I refuse.  She is angry, fights the whole "going to bed" thing.


12:22 a.m.
YD finally asleep.  Blog is almost done.  House is disaster.  Have to wake up in 7 hours.  At least I have coffee filters.

UPDATE:  1:13 a.m. 
Realize as I'm going to bed that I forgot to call the real estate website by Wed 3 p.m. deadline to tell them we are having an Open House this Sunday, now all advertising is gone and I have to cancel Open House and reschedule for the next weekend.  Because I am so organized.


TALLY:
Coffees:          5
Diet Cokes:    2
Medifast bars:  3
Expletives:      43
Margaritas:      2


Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7 a.m. (I hope) and try all over again to get it right, but I am not optimistic.  Perhaps two more coffees will get me there... 


This is A Day in the Wife. 

Please tell me your days are not dissimilar.

Mother vs. Nature, part 2

Continued from last night...

So Todd and I are  battling mutant rodents in the yard in hand to hand combat, but they are retaliating by bringing in giant rabid raccoons to crap next to the house.  I decided to eliminate their cover by hacking through the jungle of weeds and hedges that abut the garden.  As I'm climbing behind the garden fence with my pruners in hand, I swear I hear little squeaky voices saying, "Stanley!  Grab a beer and a camcorder, this is going to be great!" and another squeaky voice saying, "The dumb bitch is going to fall for it!" and a third, deeper voice yelling, "Alvin!"

I cut back into the weedy growth and hedges about a foot, so if the chipmunks are approaching the fence, we can see them and use our 30 foot flamethrower to incinerate them.  However, about 12 hours later, I realize that I have been handling this:

 Say hello to poison sumac.

It started as a little bug bite on my family gobbler chin.  I sort of absentmindedly scratched it, and thought, "Huh.  I need to use bug repellent."  Then it sort of spread, and then I could feel it developing on my chest where my bra strap would be, and then on my hip, and I thought, "Uh oh." Because whenever I get into poison ivy, oak, and now sumac, I turn into a balls-out leper.  Think I'm kidding?  Get a load of this action:

 This picture?  Is actually flattering.

I have a patch of this the size of a tea saucer on my chest, and a long 2-3 inch wide strip from my abdomen down my hip on either side.  At least I can rest assured that I will not get pregnant this month.  Glass half full!

You might be asking yourself, "Self, what is poison sumac like?"  Well, you are in luck, because my public humiliation is your learning tool.  It burns like when James bit Bella on the arm and Edward had to suck it out but he wasn't sure if he could stop. (By the way, why didn't Edward's eyes turn red after sucking Bella's blood?  Huh?)  It is blistery and oily and crusted over, and looks like there are tiny disgusting water balloons all over me.  Tonight I was working on the porch, my FAVORITE place in the world at this time of year, and Youngest Daughter was eating a bag of Cheetos in a nearby rocking chair.  Suddenly, out of NOWHERE, she throws down her bag of Cheetos and yells at me.  "I wish you had never gotten into that poison stuff because your face is so disgusting I can't eat!" and she stomped out of the room, crying.

YES, my face makes children cry.

And?  Oldest Daughter had to tell me my chin was dripping as I drove her to school today, which is every middle schooler's dream next to having her mom show everyone the Thriller dance in the middle school gym.  I had to carry a napkin with me to the Son's baseball game tonight so I could soak up my disgusting sap on the bleachers with the other parents.  They all gave me a wide berth.  I'm also lactating boil secretions through my shirt, and it's been a long time since I've secreted or lactated.  Yay, me!  Even Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein is eying me funny.  

So I guess I am on house arrest for the week, because this is really too disgusting for words.  When I was 11 I got the chicken pox and had my mom get me a yellow shirt with glitter rainbow letters that said, "POXY LADY" because weirdly enough I loved Jimi Hendrix back then.  I mean, I love him now, but at 11?  I was ahead of my time.  So I'm thinking of what t-shirts I could get for this.  Here are some ideas:

1.  "Kiss me, I'm a leper!
2. "You should see the other guy!"
3. "It's not syphilis - yet."
4. "Kiss the Cook!"
5. "Crusty the Clown Did This To Me"
6. "Seeking Pro Bono Dermatologist"

So the chipmunks have won this battle, but they have not won the war.  I plan to give them smallpox infested blankets and acorns rubbed in cold sores.  If they want to go to dermatological warfare, bring it on, baby.  I got all summer.

The Dishwasher is Alive!

First, I need to clarify something.  Graham the dishwasher installer is not Australian, he is British.  When I mentioned his Aussie-ness, he said, "No, we sent our PRISONERS to Australia."  Just so that's all cleared up.

I mentioned last week that my dishwasher was broken.  I thought it was five months without a dishwasher, but now I realize it was much, much longer, but my dirty dish days melded together in one very long period of dirty dishes in my home.  Let me give you a timeline on the dishwasher situation:

October 2009:  My dishwasher starts vomiting dirty water on the floor of my kitchen.  Instead of calling a repairperson at this time, Current Husband and I decide to wait until my dad arrives the next week to fix it.
October 2009:  My dad arrives.  He cleans out a bunch of gunked-up dish soap from around the seals and dishwasher parts.  He mutters a lot about how this generation doesn't know how to take care of anything.  Or fix anything.  Or appreciate anything.
November 2009:  Dishwasher stops vomiting, and instead stops shooting water into the dishwasher at all, and dishes come out dirtier than they went in.  Call my dad.  He starts telling me a bunch of technical stuff I don't understand.  I say "Uh-huh, Uh-huh" and eat a bag of chips.  Hang up the phone and hand wash dishes.
December 2009:  Think perhaps Santa has magically fixed dishwasher.  Try to run it.  Dishwasher vomits on floor and shoots bacteria all over plates and cutlery.
January 2010:  Buy paper plates in bulk for first time.  Vow to call repairman.  Give children the job of washing dishes.
February 2010:  Listen to kids fight over who did dishes last, and the sound of entire set of wedding dishes getting small chips in them as children drop them in sink with soapy hands.  Lose four wineglasses.  Ban children from washing wineglasses.
March 2010:  Call repairman.  He comes in, looks at dishwasher, says, "Yeah, if you would have called me in October I could save saved it, but now all of the seals are dried out and cracked.  It's dead.  That will be $60."  Shit.
April 2010:  I start pricing dishwashers.  Best salesperson ever at Best Buy, where in less dire circumstances I would never buy an appliance because we haven't had the best buys, hooked me up with free delivery, free installation, free appliance haul away, and a terrific price on a Samsung stainless steel tub and food disposal system.  Heaven. 

Goodbye old dishwasher.  Go vomit elsewhere.

Friday, May 7:  Graham showed up at around 11 a.m. with my dishwasher in the van.  He is funny.  Needs coffee with lots of sugar.  Graham and I are going to get along just fine, which is good because we will spend most of the next eight hours together for a two-hour dishwasher installation.  Graham pulls out the old dishwasher.  I take a picture of him.

 Graham was shy.  And he complained that my kitchen is too small. 

If I could afford a big kitchen I wouldn't wait 

eight months to get a new dishwasher, now would I?

I asked Graham if I could take his picture, and he looked at me warily and said, "Why."  I said that I write a blog and the three people who read it are waiting for a post about my Australian/British installer named Graham and that I promised pictures.  I said, "I bet you've never been photographed doing this before" and he sort of smiled and thought, "I've never been worried about being killed by a woman on one of these jobs.  Before now."

Graham and I had a celebratory coffee when he got the dishwasher out, because the other guy (yes, I am seeing more than one dishwasher installer) said since the previous homeowners put the ceramic tile in after the dishwasher was in, he'd have to lift the countertop to get the old one out.  Graham, in addition to being British, is magic, like Dumbledore.  He gets the thing out all the way, and I help him get it outside.  And by help, I mean I held the door open and said, "Great job!  Do you want more coffee?"   He rolled the beast out, came back in, and said, "Well I believe I picked up most of your dog shit with my two-wheeler."  (Trust me, it sounds a LOT better in a British accent.)  I laughed and said, "Oh Graham!" and he looked at me like, "No bitch, I'm serious.  There is dog shit all over my two-wheeler," but he said, "You have such a sense of humor."

And then, it happened.  He walked around the counter, looked down, and said, "Uh Oh."  I could hear the cash register ringing as I walked around the corner and saw this:

 Yes, those are CLOTH-COVERED wires, 

with big bare spots and shreds hanging from them.  

(And by the way, that is NOT mouse shit, 

it's bits of rubber from the dishwasher.)

Graham's British accent sounded fabulous as he said, "Julie.  I can't honestly believe you haven't had a house fire with these wires.  I'm sorry, but I can't install the new dishwasher with this wiring. This will be time-consuming."  And I said, "Ooh, tell me again, but say it will cost hundreds of dollars!"

Graham left to install another dishwasher while I got the emergency (translation:  pricey) wiring situation handled.  The person who did that said, "If you have another electrical problem, I'm just going to warn you that you need to have this whole house rewired.  It will probably cost three to four thousand dollars.  I don't know how this got through your inspection when you bought the place."  And just when I thought I was over being bitter about the purchase of our Lemon House three years ago.  Pause with me for a moment of believing fervently in karma.  Okay, I'm done.

Long story short...oh, wait, it's too late for that.  Graham came back, and got back to work, putting my dishwasher in with a putty knife, one half-inch at a time, because for about two hours it looked like maybe it wasn't going to go in because it is bigger than the old one.  In the meantime, I figured out I wasn't going to make it to the kids' school festival, where I was scheduled to face-paint with Oldest Daughter.  I recruited a neighbor to take the kids over, and made OD face-paint by herself.  She was so, so happy about this news, but could see I was a Mommy On The Brink, so she sulked away wordlessly.  On a side note, this is what Youngest Daughter wore to the festival:

Is it necessary to point out that she picked this herself?  

The two-sizes-too-small Easter dress, 

leggings, ankle socks and satin shoes?

I had bigger fish to fry than fashion.

After a long day for both of us, Graham had the new dishwasher in and running.  He asked for my blog address so he can check out his picture and see what I wrote about him (HI GRAHAM!  IT'S STILL RUNNING!) I wrote a check for the extra installation, and all told the unforeseen circumstances cost us about $240 total.  Ten minutes after Graham left, the school called, and in our absence, they drew our name as one of the winners of the raffle at the school, and we won $250.  Tradition, or class, would dictate that perhaps we should donate that money back to the school, but DUDE, it felt like it was meant to be.  It was a win-win.  My first all day.  I've run two loads of dishes in this baby, and I am in love.  CH, you should be worried. 

Momma's here, baby.  Momma's here.