Move

****Updated: in retrospect, I feel the tiniest bit sorry and guilty for what might be construed by some as Lloyd mocking. By 'some', I mean Lloyd, of course. Not quite bad enough to take this post down, only bad enough to add this disclaimer, and to state that I did, in fact, probably agree to undertake the moving methods described in an unflattering manner below. I might even have helped. But I was under duress.****

Yep, we've been in the same house for a full eighteen months now, time to move! I counted them up today, we've moved ten times in a little less than ten years. This time is a little different, of course- it's the first time we will have to pack ourselves. By 'we', I mean Lloyd, because I will be working out of town. See the picture up top? It's part of the garage. I stopped going in there, as you may recall, some time ago when I noticed Lloyd had the corpse-stashing cooler, some hefty bags, a mop and a case of bleach staged by the door. I sucked it up today, though, so I could illustrate what a daunting task the move is going to be. The first thing I noticed was the pile of firewood the size of a small sports stadium; it's much larger than it used to be. I mean, I like wood as much as the next girl, but there's a limit, am I right?

So, okay, now it's Sunday night. I started this early in the weekend and had big plans to finish up a nice long post about the new house and how I didn't see it first, which gave my sister conniptions but all my military spouse friends will know that you get to see the new house before it's picked out only about half the time, which in my experience is about the same ratio at which you get your husband to be present at the births of your children. But let's face it, I'm well into the second glass of wine and the posts don't write themselves, even though it seems like it sometimes, so I'm going to finish it up combat style:

• The new house is awesome. It has about a million huckleberry, salmonberry and blackberry bushes, its own stream and swamp, ample hoses and limited carpet, among many other fine features.

• I can't decide if I feel sorrier for Lloyd, or for myself. He has to move however many millions of pounds of crap we have, but I have to live with the aftermath. I'm thinking of the time he drove my car into the back of a U-Haul and then tossed a crib on top of it for a move from Florida to Louisiana and scraped up both sides AND the top. Oh, and also of the time he put my ridiculously-expensive-purchased-foolishly -for-a-first-child leather glider in the back of his truck and didn't secure it so it rocked back and forth until it rocked right out onto the road, and then tried to throw it away. Oh, sorry, is my bitter showing? And I changed my mind. I DEFINITELY feel sorrier for me.

• Don't worry about me, though, I have all my important junk stuffed in plastic bags in my car. I am not even kidding. I could live comfortably for quite some time.

• We had a nice picnic at Grandpa's house over the weekend. Well, nice to everyone except Shane, who informed me that it was the worst bad picnic ever. I'm not sure, but I think it was because Aunt Jennifer called a premature halt to the dirt clod throwing. Doesn't he look TRAUMATIZED? You'd almost think he was about to move.

• I'll keep you posted; I'm pretty sure I can blog from the car. Have a good week, my friends!

Yellow

****WARNING for Helen: immediately below this warning is a picture of my foot. It probably won't traumatize you as much as this one, but you are likely to suffer moderate discomfort. Please click here for Hilarity in Shoes, which I think you will like much better than feet****

Well, I guess the Easter bunny can live to terrify small children for another year. I caved in and bought the yellow coat this morning, so there will be no need to skin his yellow fur off for a cape. Wait, if you didn't read yesterday's post, you will probably have NO IDEA what I'm talking about, even though it makes PERFECT SENSE. So, let me explain. No, there is no time. Let me sum up. See, I had this brilliant plan to..... Oh, NEVER MIND. It's a long story, and trust me, the scheme was genius beyond words. In any case, it ends like this: I have a beautiful new yellow coat. So beautiful that I painted my toenails to match it. I do like sandal season but sadly, it appears that boot season may be behind me. Bittersweet, I know, and as a result I have been thinking ALL DAY about my motorcycle boots that I lost in the great Osan mold epidemic of '08. Oh, those would have been SO AWESOME with my new yellow coat.

Also, I noticed another problem caused by the fantastic new coat: it's sort of like when you put in a new kitchen floor, and then you realize how ratty your cabinets and countertops are. Then you replace those, and start noticing the chips in your china and how your pans are all scratched up and how you don't have NEARLY enough wine. No? Maybe it's just me. In the case of the coat, I decided it would look stunning with navy, and I don't have any navy. And maybe some blue and green toned scarves. And a crisp white shirt, and DEFINITELY some new purses. And probably a lot of new open-toed shoes. So you know what happens next, right? Yep, I am for sure taking that sucker back tomorrow. Okay, fine, I am totally just kidding. Wanna go thrifting with me? I will be there every day for AT LEAST the next three weeks. Maybe I will even find some new motorcycle boots!

Well, that's all for now, I have to go rest up for all that shopping. Have a good week, my friends, wherever you are!

Beautiful

Wow, is it a beautiful day! The boys are outside wreaking havoc in their bare feet; it's hard to believe that this was the scene outside my office two days ago:

That is the smoker's shelter outside the office, collapsed under three or four inches of wet snow. Boy, you have never seen such a crabby bunch of tokers, I'm not kidding. But that's all in the past, right? And all that nasty ridiculously late snow is gone. The sun is shining, the dandelions are blooming, and the grass is lush and tasty:

I think we can all see what's wrong with this video, don't you? I was shocked, I tell you, SHOCKED, to learn that Lloyd does not allow the boys to eat grass. I KNOW! What is he thinking? I put a lot of effort into encouraging them to be self-reliant; that really cuts down on the number of cheese quesadillas and peanut butter sandwiches I have to throw at them. Mostly my efforts consist of ignoring their ever more insistent requests for food until they give up and scrounge something for themselves. And really, they are excellent foragers. They know all the edible weeds in the yard and are pretty agile at snapping up bugs. The less food we need, the more cash available for wine! Besides, a little grass never hurt anyone, right?

He probably also doesn't let them jump out of trees, but I didn't want to ask. What I don't know doesn't hurt me, I always say! Not captured on video:

Weston (approximately 10 feet up the apple tree in his bare feet): Can I jump from here?

Me: I don't know, can you?

Weston: Tell me if it's safe!

Me: You'll have to decide for yourself. I don't know if I'd do it, myself, from that high up with no shoes on.

Weston: Will I die?

Me: No.

Weston: But is it safe?

Shane: It's safe! Do it!

Weston: No! (climbs down gingerly)

I think I might be taking this self-reliance thing a little too far, though. When I came out of the shower this morning, I discovered Shane, naked, plunging the toilet and Weston on the computer, shopping for turtles. They're starting to scare me a little, I don't mind saying. I'm pretty sure there's no going back now, though. All I can do is hang on for the ride. And stock up on wine. Okay, fine, I would do that anyway. WHATEVER.

St. Patrick's Day

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I just looked it up; I had absolutely no idea that it was a Christian holiday, though I suppose the St. part might have been kind of a giveaway. At least St. Patrick doesn't sound like too much of an asshole, unlike some of those other jerks. In any case, I'm a fan of any saint that properly appreciates beer and drunken nakedness. I've never understood why we need a special day for that; usually I just call it 'Thursday'.

We are having a pretty standard weekend here, bizarre holiday or no. The boys are out cutting up sticks in the back yard after having collected a plastic container full of innocent unsuspecting spiders, constructed some sort of robot out of a flashlight, broken toys, nails and fishing line, and dug a hole to China in the lawn. There is also a small pile of charred debris on the back porch; I'm not even going to ASK about that, as I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. Additionally, I am deeply regretting the day in December when I optimistically purchased a thrift store set of approximately nine billion poker chips in a spinning holder for a Christmas present for them. I was thinking of how nicely it would supplement their math education, of course.

I'm sure you know where this is going. Those cursed plastic tokens are all over the house, and Shane will be asking for Jack and Coke and plotting a road trip to Vegas any day now. On the other hand, Weston's most recent math lesson consisted of some algebra problems that are probably not addressed in most first grade curricula. Most likely the poker chips were instrumental, and now he can develop some brilliant casino scam for Shane to execute. Then I'm taking my cut right off the top and going to the spa. With wine. At least that's what I tell myself every time I get another one of those damn things jammed into my foot.

Hmmmm, what else? Oh, yes. There is a woolly bear caterpillar loose in the house. Apparently, it was released from the container it lives in for a little exercise, and Shane was supposed to be 'babysitting' it to keep it from getting lost but fell down on the job. Also, there are traps set around the living room. The traps consist of balls wrapped in blankets. See, you step on the blanket, not realizing there is a ball in there and you slip and fall. It's surprisingly effective. Geez, forget the spa and just bring on the wine, baby! And make it snappy, because now Shane is planning to acquire four baby cheetahs. He's a resourceful little thing, too, I wouldn't rule it out.

Have a good weekend, my friends! I was planning to lounge on the couch with wine but now I'm scared of accidentally falling asleep and getting cheetah-mauled. I'm definitely in the market for a good plan B. I can't cross the living room so I might be stuck here at the computer. I'll see you on Facebook as soon as I finish my wine delivery order.

Caution: DANGEROUS UNICORN

Holy roadkill, people. You would not believe the day at work I just had. I feel like I got run over by a steamroller and then scraped up with a pitchfork, tossed into an incinerator and dumped at a landfill by the Pentagon. It started out okay, until I had a little accident and my finger started bleeding. That's all. Just a tiny little cut that started an avalanche of crazy.

I have this problem with the bandages at my office. The truth is, I'm kind of a menace and I frequently need minor medical attention, so I'm a connoisseur of adhesive bandages. We have first aid kits on the wall in multiple locations but I'm sorry to report that the bandages are often missing and always substandard. And I must point out that I am well-versed in opening the first aid kit, retrieving what I need, and then successfully latching it and walking away with minimal trauma. You can imagine my delight, then, when I spotted a brand new first aid kit affixed to the wall this morning. I unlatched it so fast your head would spin, eager to check out the new bandages, only to cry in dismay as the supplies tumbled down onto the floor. In fact, if I had been wearing open-toed shoes, I might have suffered an injury from the baby delivering/tracheotomy scissors. Naturally I never wear open-toed shoes, even though I have the most awesome sea green toenail polish on right now. I WOULD wear open-toed shoes, only I can barely keep from tripping over my own feet when I'm wearing sensible boots. NOT RELEVANT.

Because I am a kind-hearted person, my first inclination was to fix this problem so it wouldn't happen to anyone else. After I punched my whiteboard, I mean, and the guy that hung up a first aid kit that was meant to lay flat. I went to talk to him about how we needed to either put the thing somewhere else, or put a note on it so people knew not to open it while it was on the wall. Shockingly, he looked at me like I was the stupidest thing to ever walk the earth on two legs and said that I should have KNOWN that I needed to take it off the wall before I opened it. So I canvassed the office. Every single person that I asked, with one notable exception, agreed that I was right and he was grievously wrong. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. If a first aid kit hangs on the wall, it is reasonable and logical to assume it can be opened ON THE WALL. So I told him to shut up and put the note on the first aid kit.

Then all hell broke loose. One of my pollees mentioned the dispute to the facilities manager, who hit the roof. The first aid kit is unapproved, unauthorized, unmapped, cannot be hung on the wall and was requisitioned improperly. Now the first aid kit guy hates me and I still can't get a damn bandage. And that was all before lunchtime. I don't even have the energy right now to write about the afternoon, when I was forced to choose a fierce animal to be. I went for a unicorn with a big stabby horn and then someone called me a My Little Pony. I wish I was making this up. Lucky for me my dream castle has wine AND margaritas on tap. Come on over if you want, but watch out for the horn. It's sharp and did I mention I'm a little dangerous? It could get bloody if I start swinging that thing around and bandages are hard to come by these days. I better put a sign up.

Fork!

So, how was YOUR day? I am getting mixed reports from all my friends. One reports that her teenager locked his keys in his running car for the second day in a row, her dog chewed up her phone, and her own car wouldn't start. Another friend, on the other hand, enjoyed a close-up view of a bunch of otters playing in the wild.

As for me, hmmmmmm......... my day at work had its usual ups and downs. Trust me, you don't want to hear about them. When I got home, I discovered that Weston can multiply two three digit numbers together and Shane can do front walkovers. Then I had to go to the dreaded swimming lessons, followed by a stop at the store for wine and various other necessities. Sadly, my shopping skills were severely degraded because I was doing what I like to call multi-tasking but what you might call gossiping or chitchatting. In fact, I was busily receiving the all-important daily reports about poodles and otters from my pals and as a result I neglected to bring home the most important bag: the one with the wine and breakfasting supplies for my two small children. One can't go without wine, now can one? Well, maybe another one can, but not this one. In any case, I had to trek back to the store, most definitely a forkable moment.

Oh, wait, I bet you don't know about the fork rating system yet. You will, though, because everyone definitely needs to read about it. It was invented by Leah, one of my most stunning, brilliant and funny friends from Korea. She is writing a new guest blog at girlfriendology.com, so please go check it out; you won't be sorry! Comments would be greatly appreciated, so let her know what you think. Maybe even share your own fork story! She also has some fantastic advice for when your friends are having those fork-worthy days. It might surprise you, or not, to know that she highly recommends chocolates and margaritas. You can adapt her system to your own needs, though. For example, say your friend goes shopping and accidentally leaves her wine at the store. I'm pretty sure you know how to help her. Want to come over?? Please? And don't forget the chocolates! Good night, my friends, I hope your day was great, wherever you are!

Home

Okay, okay, no more crocus pictures! FINE. But sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don't, right? Or so I've heard. Anyway, we are home from the beach. It was the usual collection of sand, pop rocks, frigid water, wine, bingo, arguments, running, rocket launching, howling, shopping, peeing on the beach and trashy television. I'll leave it to you to sort out the kid activities from the canine fun from the adult pursuits. I bet you won't get it right, either, but it doesn't really matter, now does it? Because we're home and what goes on at the beach stays at the beach. And that's all I have to say about THAT.

On the way home, we stopped at Doraville. As you may know, Doraville is what my mother's grandfather, Josef, named his homestead, after his wife, Dora. Josef spent years clearing trees to build his house. The picture on top is of an apple tree located at the original orchard near where the house stood, and the second one is the view down the hill from near where the house was. When Josef first claimed the land, it was thick with old growth fir that he cleared by hand. He was quite the writer, Josef was, leaving us, among other efforts, years of journals detailing his exploits. One of my favorite stories is this one about the winter of 1887 when he was nearly killed by giant trees crashing to the ground in hurricane force winds.

Perhaps slightly ironically, then, the homestead is now my uncle's sustainable tree farm. While we were there, they were logging a stand of fifteen year old trees with a super cool machine that clips them off near the ground, strips off the limbs, and lays them down, ready to be placed smartly into a self-loading log truck.

I thought the boys would like the tree clipper; because who doesn't love diesel powered equipment? I have no idea what's it's really called, but I think tree clipper is pretty suitable, so that's its name from now on until I die. We watched it for a little while, and then the boys ran off to the true attraction on the farm: thick, sticky red-brown mud. Seriously, that stuff is nasty. I wouldn't even let them in the van, and you know my standards for car cleanliness are pretty low. Plus the van was already full of the remnants of all the questionable beach activities noted above, so you'd think a person with substandards like mine might feel that a little mud wouldn't hurt anything. But you would be wrong; that's how bad it is. I knew before I let them play in it, of course, because I spent almost every summer of my childhood there, along with many, many weekends, and I was often coated in the stuff myself. I don't like to stifle their creativity, though, and feel strongly that a willingness to get filthy is an admirable trait that will serve them well. Still don't want it in the car, though!

So I made them strip down and roll around in the wet grass and wear trash bags the rest of the way home. I figure that's good for them, too, because coming from Josef's family, they are definitely meant to be country boys and there's not always a hose or even a rusty cattle water trough when you need to wipe the muck off, am I right? Oh yes, I'm a country girl, you didn't know that? As long as the country has wine and a thrift store, I'm good. But I have to admit, it's good to be home to the 'burbs where there's a Starbucks and an eco-friendly dry cleaner on every corner. Have a good weekend, my friends! I'll be doing laundry and picking caked-on red brown clay out of little tiny crevices. And drinking wine.

The Tooth Fairy Better Not Screw Me Over

Do any of you guys remember two years ago, when my birthday lasted like six days and ended with boils? I didn't think it was possible but I think that one might be facing some stiff competition for the most ridiculous birthday ever.

I have been out of town all week busting my ass for the greater good, like usual, only extra hard. So hard, in fact, that I earned a sparkly tiara for my efforts, but that's a story for another day, except for the part where I put it on my head this morning so it wouldn't be crushed and then forgot about it and wore it to many usually tiara-free places. It DID seem like people were admiring me much more than usual, and some old geezer at the gas station told me I looked beautiful, so that worked out well. In fact, I think I might wear it all the time from now on.

I arrived home today with big plans to enjoy my birthday. A party, a Goodwill shopping spree: you know, all my favorite treats. The house was perfectly clean until I got there and lugged in about 8,000 pounds of work and 3,000 pounds of dirty laundry. Then, I took a nap and when I woke up all hell had broken loose. Shane was curled up on the bathroom floor, whimpering and surrounded by vomit. A trail of puke at least forty feet long and a disturbing red-orange color led from the kitchen, through the living room and down the hall. Meanwhile, Lloyd was yanking a loose tooth out of Weston's mouth with a pair of pliers. I guess he figured the whole carpet will have to be bleached anyway so a few more drops of blood won't make any difference.

It was all down hill from there, too. I cancelled my party in favor of popsicle shopping and the Magic School Bus. I'm still going to Goodwill, though. In my tiara. On deck tonight: 8,000 pounds of work, 9,000 pounds of yakked-on laundry, and a truly daunting volume of wine. I just hope that damn tooth fairy doesn't drink too much and fall asleep in her tiara again. I suppose she will be worthless when it comes to folding laundry, too. Happy Birthday to.... Oh, NEVER MIND!

Robot Kitty Army

Shane: Wanna know what I'm going to do when I grow up?

Me: Yes, what?

Shane: I'm going to be an inventor!

Me: Cool. What are you going to invent?

Shane: Robot kitties.

Me: And what will they do?

Shane: Whatever I tell them to!

Brilliant, right? The boys spent the better part of two hours refining the specifications for the robot kitties. There will be 53 of them; 40 belonging to Shane and 13 to Weston. Shane's will all look like Henry or Jake, while Weston's will be white and fluffy. For some agreed-upon reason, they will all answer only Shane, and they will do whatever he says, except for robbing, stealing, swiping or killing. If he gives an order consisting of one of these forbidden activities, they will stand down.

Now, I'm not a girl to let a good labor-saving idea pass me by, so I could see the value of the robot kitty army right away, and I was quick to verify that they could cook AND clean up. And, in fact, I was assured that they will do as they are told, except for the prohibited tasks. But why stop there? I asked if they could get jobs and bring home the bacon, and was informed that they can, but their job qualifications apparently only allow them to be police officers or firefighters. I was a little disappointed, because I was hoping for fat cat bankers or hedge fund managers, instead of some underpaid public servants. I guess there ARE 53 of them; they ought to be able to keep me in wine. And I will definitely need copious volumes if I am going to be forced to live with robot kitties, no matter how much money they make.

I had hoped they were going to get started with the construction right away, but no, the boys have decided that the scheme is going to have to wait until they are adults. That's 4,913 days from now. Not that I'm counting. Or stocking up on diodes and fake fur.

Enough With the Snow Already

So! I took these pictures just before dark last night because I was just SURE I would wake up this morning and it would all be gone. But NOPE! It looked exactly the same this morning, and it looks basically the same right this very second. It HAS been raining since mid-morning, so it's getting good and slushy. Good thing, too, because everyone I know is going just a little bit nuts. And that DEFINITELY includes me. I have been working at home most of the week, but today Lloyd dropped me off at work in the redneck truck. I didn't even wait for him to stop before I flew out of there so fast your head would spin. I have NEVER been so glad to get to work in my whole life, and that includes when I used to get to drive bulldozers and drink beer at work. Not at the same time, of course. As far as you know. Because that would just be dangerous.

Now, because today was the first day I went to work this week, I have been thinking all day that it's Monday. Of course, it is not; it is, in fact, Friday, and an entire slushy, pouring-down-rain, giant-wet-laundry-pile abyss of a weekend yawns in front of me. Man, what I would not give for a bulldozer right now. I would make short work of that laundry pile and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have any trouble getting to the wine store. Or to Goodwill!

Hmmmmmm......................

The Past Comes Back to Haunt me, and a Turkey in a Dress

Yes, that is a turkey in a dress. No, I do not know why, thank you for asking. I could try to explain it but I would probably not be successful, so I will just say that in my family, we do things like put dresses on turkeys. Seriously, I don't know why. But I do think that particular shade of blue is not that turkey's color and next time we should go for more of a forest green or some other jewel tone. Or a plaid, perhaps- that red and blue and green one. Come on, you know what I'm talking about, admit it.

There is, however, a reason for the turkey itself. The boys and I went to my dad's house today to have dinner with the cousins and the aunts. My dad has been sorting through pictures and other assorted items and there is always a bag or box (or both!) with my name on it. Sometimes I just set the whole thing on fire but once in a while there is some good stuff in there. Today I hit the jackpot with some letters I wrote to my parents from college in 1988. I scanned one of them so you could see the art work. I'm not going to transcribe them, but here are my favorite excerpts:

Letter 1: ....it's really boring here. I even cleaned my whole apartment. I made my bed this morning too WOW!!!!!!!..... it should be another fun weekend. Somebody put a toilet in the middle of the fountain and it wasn't me, and I don't know who it was. Aren't you impressed?

Letter 2: Susannah is going to stay with us over Memorial Day, ok? Her family moved to Alaska and she has no home. Can I have some money? I need to eat. All I have is condiments.

That is some classic literature right there, people... And speaking of classic literature, also in the box today were two college texts on cat anatomy. Interestingly enough, when we got home Shane asked, 'What's the inside of a cat look like?' I'm not sure if he knew about the books in advance or if it was just a freakish coincidence, but either way it worked out well for Shane. The cats, not so much.

Overall, it was an excellent day. The kids played outside for hours- it was freezing cold and they wouldn't even put coats on. They had some awesomely questionable game about grizzlies, guns and dinosaurs. Here, you can see a snippet for yourself:

Then Jennifer and the aunts and I had an argument about the advisability of small children peeing outside. Strangely, I found myself in alone in a minority of one but I PREFER that they pee outside. The bathroom stays way cleaner that way. Who can argue with logic like that? Plus it saves valuable playing time. And even if you don't have a preference, why would you care? I WOULD rather they not pee in parking lots, or at least not when I'm with them, but what are you going to do, right? I will not back down on this one, my friends. Who's with me?

I also got in a good thrifting trip. Good thing, too, because I really needed some wine glasses. I break about one a week; that's probably how I'll tell time after the earthquake. I found six new ones for 69 cents each, but I broke one on the kitchen floor when I got home. It was still wrapped in the paper, though, so the cleanup was super easy.

So that was my day; I hope you are having a fantastic weekend!

Monopoly

I used to love Monopoly. When I was little, my sister and I and our cousins would play for hours with rules of our own devising and plenty of cheating. My favorite tactic was to stash some extra bills in the bathroom and then pretend I had to pee if my cash flow was getting dicey.

I was none too pleased to find it under the tree this year, though. And not because I've outgrown questionable financial practices, either. Nope, it all has to do with my outrageous vanity. See, Weston has been regularly kicking my ass at chess for quite some time and the last thing I need is another avenue for a vigorous thrashing at the hands of a seven year old. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't fall for the bathroom scheme, too. The truth is, I haven't been able to trick him for at least a year and a half.

So I had to develop a new strategy: now I pour a giant glass of wine, hide some extra in the bathroom, and see how fast I can blow through those colorful bills in pursuit of blissful bankruptcy.

Do you guys care if I talk about squirrels now? I'm super tired of talking about Monopoly. The squirrel thing is kind of gross, though. First you have to read this article in today's Seattle Times about an urban squirrel harvester. She sounds a little nuts, but it's an intriguing idea. Read the comments, too- they are hilarious. There seems to be an aversion to chowing down on cute food sources. I don't know why; once you cut the face off the meat all looks the same, right? Also, it reminded me of this awesome post on eating dog by Ask A Korean. I don't care what you think of eating dogs, that post is pure brilliance.

Because I am slightly demented, I was intrigued by the methods by which you could dispatch the squirrels, but I will spare you all the gory details. After some lengthy and very interesting discussion, it became apparent that I would be less than successful should the necessity or opportunity for squirrel killing arise. It's unfortunate, too, because I'm not a girl to miss many meals, which makes me a fan of having a robust food reserve. Oh well, there's always those tasty and attractive slugs! In fact, I would eat a whole sack of those slimy things if it would get me out of this Godforsaken game. A girl can dream, you know.

Holy Cat Yak

Happy Boxing Day! I had quite the adventure today, you guys will be so jealous! I don't even know where to start. We had the cousins over today and it was NUTS. I'm not exactly sure how this happened, but somehow it was agreed that my sister would drop off her charming children at my house and go shopping. Sounds pretty promising, right? I mean, what could go wrong? The kids LOVE to play together.

And, in fact, it did go along pretty swimmingly for quite a while. After about 11 million hours of providing free child care, though, Shane and Teddy announced that they had been cutting the curtains. Sure that they would NEVER actually be slicing up the drapes, I responded casually, and returned to sifting through the 73 pounds of debris I dumped out of my bags while looking for my missing work watch. They were a little too quiet for a little too long, so I went back over there and questioned them more thoroughly about this cutting the curtains thing. Sure enough, they had very efficiently snipped through the better part of two panels. A little annoying, sure, but the thing that really pisses me off is that after all that work they have neither play clothes for themselves nor an elegant gown for me to show for it. Clearly, they have not been watching enough television, which I started to remedy as soon as they got back from their time-outs for being such slackers.

All that scissor work apparently made them hungry, so I whomped up plates of color coordinated orange snacks: cheez-its, carrots and oranges. I looked for orange downers to crush up and sprinkle on top but I didn't have any and had to go with the standard white ones. While they were sitting there inhaling the goods, the cat yakked up on the living room floor. It had ribbon in it. I will have no more to say about that. Ever.

Then, Jennifer came back. I was so happy. Until she plopped herself down in front of my computer and continued shopping. She didn't even bring me any wine, my watch is still missing, and my sedatives are all gone. HELP ME.

Dead Cat Christmas

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you had a great day, with plenty of presents and wine! I got lots of wine, leftovers from my sister's traditional Christmas Eve soup and sammies party. I was going to go to the party, but I heard Lillian was going to call me a chipmunk, so I stayed home. And since I didn't go, there was plenty of leftover hooch for me to drink today. So that worked out nicely. For me.

It was a very rainy and windy day until late in the afternoon, so the kids had to stay inside and shriek. Luckily we were at Grandpa's house; there's a little more cousin tackling space and Grandpa can't hear. For the rest of us, there was the leftover wine. I just jammed the corks in my ears and bottoms up, my friends! I was going to post a short video, but I think I'll just spare you. Consider it a little Christmas gift from me to you. You're welcome!

Then Jennifer and I went down to the Carol tree in the storm. It's a hemlock, and it's at the park on the lake near my parents' house. That was super fun, and frigidly cold except for the broiling hot tears coursing down our faces. Wait, where did that wine go? Oh yeah, I drank it all because I deeply appreciate its numbing qualities. The afternoon improved, weather-wise, and I went for brisk little trail run, which has improved my disposition remarkably, until tomorrow, when my thighs will feel like badgers have been chewing on them again.

And, that's the Christmas report from the house of dead cats. Merry Christmas, y'all!

Home

Yep, I am home, PHEW! The return trip was a significant improvement, thankfully. Oh, there, see? I DO have something to be thankful for! Besides wine and xanax, I mean. Unfortunately, everything is just as we left it, although there WAS a new pair of boots on the porch. Yay, me! It's a sickness, I told you, so SHUT UP!

I had to sit in a middle seat, which sucked, especially since it was the end of the day and my hippie deodorant was all worn off, with just a hint of patchouli left. I felt bad. I'm not CRUEL, you know. Now, normally, I hate talking to people on airplanes, because really, what's the point? Plus chances are good that they are total idiots, otherwise what would they be doing traveling cross-country in a flying sardine can? Oh, right. On the other hand, there are some benefits to talking to someone you'll never see again. There's absolutely no reason to censor anything you say, as long as you haven't killed any nuns or crippled children lately. Because you should definitely keep quiet about THAT. If you can get the right flights, it would be pretty cheap therapy. You could just buy one of those super cheap round trips when the fares go on sale, since you don't care where you're going. Plop down next to some poor schmuck and spill your guts. Problem solved! I would totally do it, too, only I have Helen for that.

Anyway, it was a super long flight and I guess the guy next to me got bored of his email because he started talking to me. Turns out he just invented this technology to analyze the receptors on the adaptive immune system. I know, blah blah blah, boring geek talk, right? But this geek was into germs so I asked him who is crazier, the germophobes or the people who pick their noses and let their kids play in the toilet. Guess what? He said there are so many pathogens around all the time that it's ridiculous to think that anything you do will make any appreciable difference in your susceptibility to illness. AND, germs are good for you, because many of the microbes are similar in certain ways and being in contact with common ones might help you out some day when you encounter freaky ones. So there you have it. I don't know about you guys, but for me that's awesome news! I especially like the part about how there are so many pathogens that nothing I do makes any difference, because that totally lets me off the hook for any lack-of-cleaning related illnesses.

Then, I got home and I can't find one of the new used cats. The house doesn't stink, though. Any more than usual, I mean, so it's all good, right? RIGHT?

Again with the gastropods

I swear to you, I am not trying to copy shitmykidsruined.com; lately it just seems that every time I turn around my kids have ruined some more shit. Right now there is a big pile of wet dirt on the front walk, the unattractive remains of a vinegar/baking soda/red kool-aid volcano on the porch, a web of fishing line strung around the living room, mud spattered on the front window, and a snail running wild in the kitchen. Currently, it is clinging to the corner where the cabinet meets the ceiling. I have no idea where it came from. I don't even WANT to know, because it probably has friends and a large extended family.

Truly, I have a million other things to write about, and some of them are even important. Well, okay, that's probably a lie. But you never know; don't count me out! I might surprise you yet with a deep thoughtful analysis of some serious, timely issue. Fine, another lie. So sue me. But do it quick, before the debt ceiling default because about 23 milliseconds after that my net worth will consist solely of gastropods, empty kool-aid packets and wine bottles. That'll learn you. Either way, I even get tired of myself if I post too much of the yuk, yuk, look what my crazy kids did now/I'm a bad mommy schtick. It's just that it's so, so easy: this stuff writes itself. And also boggles the mind. Look, here's a video! Just a short that chronicles one of the afternoon's approximately 43 googol similarly insane activities:

See what I mean? What's a girl to do, right? Sigh.

Outrage of the Day: Kid Version

I don't know about you guys, but I find PLENTY of things to be outraged about. EVERY SINGLE DAY. Today, for example, if I was going to make a list, it would have Iowa, Rupert Murdoch and Andy Scott on it. Just for starters. But that is all very dreary and would probably give me bad dreams. I had a creepy dream last night about some sort of nasty Cujo-like creature, and I don't relish waking up in a cold sweat two nights in a row. So I thought I'd do a junior version of the outrage of the day. Behold, my entries for today:

1. Approximately five bucks worth of organic gluten free oatmeal, generously furnishing a lavish home for potato bugs.

2. A vast array of flashlights in formerly perfect condition. Not one of them will switch on, and two are missing parts. It's like a flashlight boneyard in my kitchen, and the sad fact is, that is every single one of our emergency lights. If the earthquake comes before I can get some new ones I'll have to light my fingers on fire so I can find my wine. Outrageous!

Cat Therapy

You guys all know my cat, Henry, right? If you need to, you can refresh your memory by clicking here. He's sort of an unusual cat- he has the most magnificent tail, and he drinks out of the toilet, just to name a few of his finer qualities.

We got him at a shelter, and Lloyd was pretty cross about paying $130 for a used cat. We looked hard for a free cat, but they were surprisingly hard to find. They all have a 'rehoming' fee: what a scam. It's outrageous, I tell you! We would have held out in protest but we had promised Weston he could have a cat as soon as we moved into our new house so we trotted right down to the local cat adoption center. There were at least a zillion cats there, but Weston walked straight up to Henry's cage and wanted to take him home then and there. I made him look around at all the others but he kept going back to Henry, so we knew he was meant to be our cat.

But now, I'm a little concerned about him. I think he might need therapy, because he can't seem to set appropriate boundaries. Take a look at the pictures; you'll see what I mean. They're probably not in the right order- that would take a million monkeys working in blogger for a hundred years, but I'm sure you can put it together. The boys invented a new game, called 'Garbage Truck', and here's how it works:

1. Put Henry in a laundry basket (aka 'the garbage truck')

2. Dump a bunch of toys and books on top of him to simulate additional garbage

3. Drive the 'garbage truck' to the 'garbage dump'

4. Dump the load onto the floor

You would think that Henry wouldn't care for this, but in fact he just sits there and lets them do it. And not just once. They do it over, and over, and over. That's not the only questionable game they play with him, either, and so far they've only discovered one activity he won't tolerate. He doesn't mind being pushed around in a bin, as long as it's upright. But apparently, if they turn it upside down with him inside and THEN push it around, he makes his displeasure known.

I'm pretty sure this is not normal cat behavior. I've had a lot of cats, you know. You can read about all of them in this little essay called 'My Life in Cats'. My point here is that I'm not some kind of cat ROOKIE or something, and never before have I had a cat that needed mental health care. I thought this might require a professional, so I found him a good therapist: Carole Wilbourn. She even does Reiki, but unfortunately Lloyd refuses to pony up the cash to fly Henry to New York to see her, the stingewad.

But don't worry: I have a plan B. I figure the cure for my mental health issues should work fine for Henry, too, so I'm going to dump wine into the toilet tanks! Genius, right? Well, that's it for now. If you need me I'll be in the bathroom with a straw.

Earthquake Readiness Clarification

Just a little clarification after receiving an excellent question in the comments on my last post.

Q: I'm confused...do I put my wine under a table or next to the couch?

A: YES! Wine should be stashed throughout your house. I also recommend a healthy supply of wine boxes in the freezer. These can be used to treat minor injuries before being ingested. Then, you can use another one to soothe your aching head if you were foolish enough to run out of Excedrin.

And, a reminder: while wine should be placed next to couches, beds, and other large objects, people and pets should always go under a sturdy desk or table or other object as soon as any shaking is felt. Drop, cover and hold on or suffer the wrath of plate tectonics.

An additional note: The Seattle Times has recently posted an excellent collection of Emergency Resource topics.

Whatever

You want marshmallows and tortillas for breakfast? Whatever. Here, have some whipped cream on it.

The cat just hacked up a hairball on the carpet? Whatever. Oh, now there's another one and he's headed for the clean laundry basket? Whatever.

Mouse poop under the car seat? Whatever.

Three thousand for a new transmission? And you won't be home for an extra three days? Whatever.

You want to hose the house down for an hour and a half? Whatever. Just shut the door next time, all right?

That stupid clown in North Korea is up to some more of his ridiculous bullshit? Whatever.

You want to watch Rescue Heroes fourteen times in a row? Whatever. In fact, make it eighteen and we'll just run it from breakfast to bedtime. Why are those things so damn short, anyway? Why can't someone just make a show that runs all day?

What? My wine box is empty? Now we have a SERIOUS problem; I will have to drag my ass to the store. What? Safeway is out of the Badger Mountain Organic four-bottle box that only costs eighteen bucks with my dad's club card number? Really, people, how much am I expected to endure?