This morning, I made my weekly pilgrimage to Marshalls. I rarely buy anything at the discount clothing store, but if given enough time, I will try on just about everything.
Some people have productive hobbies like running and stamping. I like to try on clothes that I have no intention of purchasing.
Usually I take care of business in the designated place for such activities (AKA the dressing room). Today, however, I had a reason to be socially inappropriate. I had Cameron with me and he decided very early on that he was going to wage war with the shopping cart's seat belt. My time was short.
I was in the middle of the store when I decided to slip a blouse on over the one that I was wearing. I could tell immediately that the shirt was too big and so I took it off and hung it back on the hanger and continued sifting through the rack.
Here's where the gods punished me for my perpetual window shopping.
After I put the shirt back on the rack, it took me a full 30 seconds to realize that I was walking around the store in just my underwear.
Don't ask me to explain how I didn't notice a) that I was topless and b) that my shirt was stuffed inside the blouse that I had hung back on the rack. My husband has asked me these questions several times today, and the answers still elude me.
All I do know is that when I realized what I had done, I dove to the ground and army-crawled to the blouse. When I stood up again, three other shoppers had their hands over their mouths.
One said loudly to her friend, "What does that woman think she's doing?"
Once again, I do not have answers to these kinds of questions.
July 31, 2010
July 30, 2010
Go DUKE
Yesterday, I took my kids to Disney World's food and shopping district (Downtown Disney). There was a lot that impressed me about the place, but nothing more so than the sheer quantity of things for sale with the Mickey Mouse logo on them.
High end jewelry: CHECK
Wedding silver: CHECK
Small kitchen appliances: CHECK
Pet Houses Galore: CHECK
Headstone: CHECK
More high end jewelry: CHECK
"Some people are totally cuckoo over Disney," I told my husband when we got home. Almost as impressive as the amount of Disney merchandise for sale were the number of people buying it.
"Some people can't get enough of Disney stuff," he told me authoritatively, "Which I think is kind of creepy."
In unrelated news, I ordered new bedding for my boys:
And check out what Scentsy just sent me in the mail:
It's part of their new Campus Collection of wickless candles.
High end jewelry: CHECK
Wedding silver: CHECK
Small kitchen appliances: CHECK
Pet Houses Galore: CHECK
Headstone: CHECK
More high end jewelry: CHECK
"Some people are totally cuckoo over Disney," I told my husband when we got home. Almost as impressive as the amount of Disney merchandise for sale were the number of people buying it.
"Some people can't get enough of Disney stuff," he told me authoritatively, "Which I think is kind of creepy."
In unrelated news, I ordered new bedding for my boys:
And check out what Scentsy just sent me in the mail:
It's part of their new Campus Collection of wickless candles.
July 28, 2010
The Importance of Education...and Rubbing Your Neighbor's Back
Earlier tonight I gave a presentation to the teenage girls in my church about the importance of education. I came to the class armed with statistics and handouts out the ying yang... and old photographs of me from middle and high school. Everyone was impressed with the amount of gel I managed to squeeze in my hair.
How bad are the pictures? It will suffice to say that my cousin uses one of them as her profile picture on Facebook.
I digress.
Usually I can hold my own in front of a crowd, especially if I bring brownies for that crowd to eat after my presentation. This group, however, gave me a run for my money. A few minutes, I was fumbling around like crazy. Maybe it was my unbridled enthusiasm about the subject matter, or the fact that all of the girls were sitting sideways in their chairs and rubbing their neighbors' backs during my whole presentation, but for whatever reason, I had a tough time staying focused.
Now that I've thought about it some more, I'm pretty sure it was the back rubbing.
"This isn't a massage parlor, so knock it off," I told them.
To the girls' credit, they did listen. One by one, they pivoted around in their seats so they were facing forward. I continued with my presentation.
A few minutes later, one of the girls developed an itch on the inside of her arm. Her neighbor volunteered to scratch it. It only took a few minutes for the room to turn into a communal scratching post.
I was a little creeped out about the whole thing until my husband a) made me watch a video of gorillas picking fleas off other gorillas' backs on the Internet and b) reminded me of the time when I got kicked out Home Ec for "tickling" my friend's arm when I should have been watching the teacher make meatloaf. In my defense, I was only returning the favor: my friend tickled my arm throughout a school assembly earlier that day. My teacher said that whatever we were doing, it made her feel uncomfortable.
I didn't understand what the teacher meant then, but now I kind of do.
My husband said, "What goes around, comes around."
July 26, 2010
The Public Library: Part I
One afternoon every week, our public library shows a different animated movie in their auditorium.
Coincidentally, I happened to be in the library with my kids just before one of the movies was scheduled to start. When my kids saw the faux movie theater (auditorium + folding chairs + pull down screen) they turned into hyenas.
"Can we go? Can we go? Please can we go?"
I asked the librarian who was checking people in at the door if they had space for five more. She scanned the near empty room and then studied her clipboard. There were 13 names on her print out.
"I might be able to squeeze you in," she told me with a straight face.
"Great!" I said and gestured for my kids to enter the room.
"Wait!" the woman said, holding up her hand to stop us. "I need you to officially sign up for the event."
"OK," I replied and pulled a pen out of my purse. "What and where do I sign?"
"You have to sign up online."
"Is that really necessary?" I asked.
The woman used the words "critical" and "essential" in her reply.
"Can't I just add our names to the list that's right in front of you?"
Evidently, no I could not. I had to log onto the Internet from my cell phone to add my family into an online shopping basket on the library's website. (Important side note: I did all of this while standing five feet away from the librarian)
"We just went live with our online registration system," the librarian told me when I was done.
"I never would have guessed that," I replied.
"We're very excited about it," she continued.
"Mmmm Hmmmm," I hummed.
If you can't say something nice, it's best not to say anything at all.
I tried again to get my kids through the door. By then, the movie had already started.
"Did you print out your confirmation number?" the librarian asked.
I tried to stay calm.
"I'll let you in this time," she lectured. "But next time, you really need to bring your confirmation slip with you."
I told her that I would try...but I didn't say how hard.
The Wanderer
Two of my older children are really good about staying with me when we are 'out and about.' The third is not.
Since he was a toddler, my husband and I have called this son "The Wanderer." He doesn't deliberately run off when we are in public places, he just stops to smell the roses, stick his fingers in ant hills, and pick the leaves off of trees. A couple of days ago, my kids and I rode our bikes to 7-11. On the way, we passed through a wooded park.
Half way through the park, I turned around and counted children. One was missing. We found him on an imaginary trail in the middle of the trees.
Needless to say, this child learned his address and my cell phone number very early on. Until he was four, he used to experience the world from afar (ie strapped into the stroller). Now that that is no longer a viable option, he wears these bracelets.
"If you call them bracelets one more time, I'm going to gnaw my arm off," threatened the Wanderer a few days ago.
"If you stop wandering away from me in public places, then you won't have to wear the bracelets," I informed him.
This morning, the bracelets went missing. Around noon, I found one floating in the toilet. A few hours ago, half of one turned up under the Wanderer's bed.
For future reference, I will try to remember that six year-old boys prefer the term "wristband."
Since he was a toddler, my husband and I have called this son "The Wanderer." He doesn't deliberately run off when we are in public places, he just stops to smell the roses, stick his fingers in ant hills, and pick the leaves off of trees. A couple of days ago, my kids and I rode our bikes to 7-11. On the way, we passed through a wooded park.
Half way through the park, I turned around and counted children. One was missing. We found him on an imaginary trail in the middle of the trees.
Needless to say, this child learned his address and my cell phone number very early on. Until he was four, he used to experience the world from afar (ie strapped into the stroller). Now that that is no longer a viable option, he wears these bracelets.
"If you call them bracelets one more time, I'm going to gnaw my arm off," threatened the Wanderer a few days ago.
"If you stop wandering away from me in public places, then you won't have to wear the bracelets," I informed him.
This morning, the bracelets went missing. Around noon, I found one floating in the toilet. A few hours ago, half of one turned up under the Wanderer's bed.
For future reference, I will try to remember that six year-old boys prefer the term "wristband."
July 24, 2010
My Kids' New Parents
My husband and I knew it was going to be a good day when my kids (who went to bed last night at 10pm) got up at the crack of dawn.
We woke up to all three of them circling our bed, like birds of prey.
"Time to get up!" they snapped.
It was 5:35am.
By 8am, they had all hit the wall. "Time to go to your swim meet!" I chirped.
"I'm not going!" screamed Twin A, as I shoved him into his swimsuit.
"If I have to swim in a swim meet, then YOU have to swim in a swim meet," said my darling daughter.
Twin B ran off and hid in one of the kitchen cabinets. It took my husband 10 minutes to find him. When he did, no one was pleased.
"This is the worst day of my life!" Twin B yelled at the top of his lungs as my husband carried him to the car.
My neighbors, who witnessed the whole scene, were inspired by our parenting.
On the way to the swim meet, Twin A kicked the back of my chair, Twin B repeated everything that everyone else said, and my darling daughter invented an injury.
"My neck hurts real bad," she moaned, holding her stomach.
Once we arrived at the swim meet, things got much better. Camber announced that she had left her goggles at home (on purpose), Cortlen shoved his registration card down his pants and jumped in the pool, and Kellen announced that he had diarrhea.
"Tell me again how long swim meets last," my husband asked.
The answer made him cry.
While I went into the bathroom to change the baby's pants, my husband went in search of a sharp stick, leaving our older kids the opportunity to tell all the people sitting around us that they have the meanest parents in the entire world, that they never do anything fun, and that YMCA swim teams are prison camps. I was also accused of packing disgusting snacks in their lunches and forcing them to do horrific things like cut their fingernails against their will. According to several witnesses, my kids concluded their tirade by stating that they were in the market for new parents and had plans to move out of our house as soon as possible.
Because I experience it so often, I am largely immune to embarrassment. My husband, who still harbors the unrealistic expectation that his kids won't turn on him in public, was mortified.
On the way home from the swim meet (which we left waaaaay early), Crazy Dad swerved into a 55+ mobile home community. Driving slowly down the street, he asked each of our kids to pick out a new house.
"Those look like nice people," my husband said, pointing to a couple sitting in matching lawn chairs in their driveway. "How would you like for them to be your new parents?"
"We'll come back tonight and leave you on the doorstep with a note pinned to your shirts," my husband continued.
Two thirds of my kids were scared straight. The other third saw a house with a dog out front. He decided that he was up for a trial run.
Shortly after this comment was made, my husband changed his mind and decided that he would rather be dropped off on a stranger's doorstep instead.
We woke up to all three of them circling our bed, like birds of prey.
"Time to get up!" they snapped.
It was 5:35am.
By 8am, they had all hit the wall. "Time to go to your swim meet!" I chirped.
"I'm not going!" screamed Twin A, as I shoved him into his swimsuit.
"If I have to swim in a swim meet, then YOU have to swim in a swim meet," said my darling daughter.
Twin B ran off and hid in one of the kitchen cabinets. It took my husband 10 minutes to find him. When he did, no one was pleased.
"This is the worst day of my life!" Twin B yelled at the top of his lungs as my husband carried him to the car.
My neighbors, who witnessed the whole scene, were inspired by our parenting.
On the way to the swim meet, Twin A kicked the back of my chair, Twin B repeated everything that everyone else said, and my darling daughter invented an injury.
"My neck hurts real bad," she moaned, holding her stomach.
Once we arrived at the swim meet, things got much better. Camber announced that she had left her goggles at home (on purpose), Cortlen shoved his registration card down his pants and jumped in the pool, and Kellen announced that he had diarrhea.
"Tell me again how long swim meets last," my husband asked.
The answer made him cry.
While I went into the bathroom to change the baby's pants, my husband went in search of a sharp stick, leaving our older kids the opportunity to tell all the people sitting around us that they have the meanest parents in the entire world, that they never do anything fun, and that YMCA swim teams are prison camps. I was also accused of packing disgusting snacks in their lunches and forcing them to do horrific things like cut their fingernails against their will. According to several witnesses, my kids concluded their tirade by stating that they were in the market for new parents and had plans to move out of our house as soon as possible.
Because I experience it so often, I am largely immune to embarrassment. My husband, who still harbors the unrealistic expectation that his kids won't turn on him in public, was mortified.
On the way home from the swim meet (which we left waaaaay early), Crazy Dad swerved into a 55+ mobile home community. Driving slowly down the street, he asked each of our kids to pick out a new house.
"Those look like nice people," my husband said, pointing to a couple sitting in matching lawn chairs in their driveway. "How would you like for them to be your new parents?"
"We'll come back tonight and leave you on the doorstep with a note pinned to your shirts," my husband continued.
Two thirds of my kids were scared straight. The other third saw a house with a dog out front. He decided that he was up for a trial run.
Shortly after this comment was made, my husband changed his mind and decided that he would rather be dropped off on a stranger's doorstep instead.
July 23, 2010
My New Bracelet
I am sooooo excited. Look what I bought today!
It's a bracelet and it cost $10.52. I bought it from a costume jewelry store in the mall, where I was shopping for headbands for my daughter.
I made the purchase shortly after telling my six year-old son not to touch anything in the store.
I love new bling! Next to the broken necklace that I bought two months ago from a very angry vendor at the farmers' market, this is my favorite piece of jewelry.
It's a bracelet and it cost $10.52. I bought it from a costume jewelry store in the mall, where I was shopping for headbands for my daughter.
I made the purchase shortly after telling my six year-old son not to touch anything in the store.
I love new bling! Next to the broken necklace that I bought two months ago from a very angry vendor at the farmers' market, this is my favorite piece of jewelry.
July 22, 2010
The Case of the Missing Stamps
We have been tearing through postage stamps as of late, even though we mail very few letters.
"I think I'm losing my mind," I've told my husband on at least three separate occasions over the past month. "I could have sworn that there was a sheet of stamps in this drawer, but now there is not."
The case of the missing stamps was solved this afternoon when I caught Cortlen stuffing several pieces of paper into our apartment complex's outgoing mail slot.
I snatched the last two papers before they were gone forever.
"I've been mailing letters to Grandma and Grandpa and Optimus Prime," he explained.
He was stunned when I explained that in addition to stamps, letters require envelopes and address labels.
Me: "How often do you mail letters?"
Cortlen: "Almost every day."
Me: "Approximately how many stamps do you put on each of your letters?"
Cortlen: "It depends, but usually 4 or 5."
I'm not so good at math, but I think that will pretty much do it.
July 20, 2010
Napping With the Alligators
My seven year-old daughter likes to take naps in strange places. In the past, she's slept through live NASCAR races, amusement park rides, and a rock concert. She's also been known to curl up for a snooze on the ground next to the washing machine. There's something about loud noises that are simply irresistible for her.
For understandable reasons, I was nervous about paying for her to go on an air boat ride through a local swamp.
"You have to stay awake," I warned her as I handed her a life jacket and headphones.
Camber assured me that she wasn't the least bit tired.
Not more than two minutes after Captain Leon started the boat's engine, Camber fell into my lap.
It's hard to appreciate alligators and indigenous birds when you've just flushed $20 down the toilet.
Eventually it all became too much for me. So I poked her.
"Wake up!" I hissed. "You're missing all the alligators."
Nothing.
In the end, I missed all the alligators trying to rouse my daughter from a deep slumber so she could appreciate them as well.
The things we sacrifice for our children.
****
Captain Leon felt badly that my daughter slept through his whole tour. To make her feel better, he let her hold Gertrude.
When I told Captain Leon that I would feel a lot better about myself if I could hold Gertrude too, he said he would be happy to accommodate my request...for $10.
Captain Leon is a shrewd businessman.
For understandable reasons, I was nervous about paying for her to go on an air boat ride through a local swamp.
"You have to stay awake," I warned her as I handed her a life jacket and headphones.
Camber assured me that she wasn't the least bit tired.
Not more than two minutes after Captain Leon started the boat's engine, Camber fell into my lap.
It's hard to appreciate alligators and indigenous birds when you've just flushed $20 down the toilet.
Eventually it all became too much for me. So I poked her.
"Wake up!" I hissed. "You're missing all the alligators."
Nothing.
In the end, I missed all the alligators trying to rouse my daughter from a deep slumber so she could appreciate them as well.
The things we sacrifice for our children.
****
Captain Leon felt badly that my daughter slept through his whole tour. To make her feel better, he let her hold Gertrude.
When I told Captain Leon that I would feel a lot better about myself if I could hold Gertrude too, he said he would be happy to accommodate my request...for $10.
Captain Leon is a shrewd businessman.
July 19, 2010
Umm..Awesome!!!
Look what I just got!Thanks to all who voted. I am in awe..and am super pumped.
*****
P.S. I updated my readers' favorites list. By popular request, "Paper Underpants" is back in rotation.
The DMV
Obtaining a driver's license in the state of Florida is a very easy and straightforward process if you already have a valid license in another state.
1. Make an appointment online with your local DMW, which will probably turn out not to be quite so local.
Helpful tip: Schedule your appointment BEFORE you move, as the wait time rivals the time it takes to get in to see a specialist at a research hospital (ie. up to three months).
2. On the day of your appointment, drive to a shady strip mall in a questionable part of town. You'll find the DMV wedged between an army surplus store and a crisis pregnancy center.
3. Bring all required materials with you including your marriage certificate, social security card, rental contract, passport, most recent tax return, and two utility bills dated within the past 30 days. Just to be safe, also bring a urine sample.
4. Arrive 30 minutes prior to your appointment, but expect to wait 45 minutes after your scheduled time before being seen by a helpful and happy to be alive DMV worker. If possible, bring your kids with you to the appointment. It makes an already pleasant experience even more joyful.
5. Greet sullen and clinical depressed DMV worker with a smile, despite the fact that one of your children has just found an almost empty bottle of soda underneath his chair and decided to finish it off.
6. Hand over your documents and wait for the DMV worker to hand them back to you and say "There is a problem."
7. Be perfectly calm as the DMV worker (who is twitching with glee) explains that you have failed to bring in enough utility bills with your name on it. You need two; you have brought in four, but only one is in your name. The other three are in your husband's.
8. Nod your head politely and say "That seems logical" when the DMV worker tells you that she cannot accept a signed rental contract, a recent bank statement, any other piece of mail, or a blank check from a joint checking account as proof of residence. The only thing that she can accept is a handwritten note from your husband verifying that you live together in the same house.
9. Ask the DMW worker the following questions about the note:
"Does the note need to be notarized?"
"Does my husband need to be present when I bring the note back?"
Don't act surprised (it will be hard) when the DMV worker tells you that the answer to both of these questions is "no."
10. Exit the building with children and drive to husband's work. Demand that he produce note on the spot. Once back in the DMV parking lot, the absurdity of all of this will begin to enrage you (if it hasn't already). Filter frustration into the production of an alternative note written on professional stationary. Sign it "Mickey Mouse."
11. Hand DMV worker both notes, with yours on top.
12. Snicker to yourself as DMV worker hands papers back to you without looking closely at either.
13. Pay fees and wait for license to be printed.
1. Make an appointment online with your local DMW, which will probably turn out not to be quite so local.
Helpful tip: Schedule your appointment BEFORE you move, as the wait time rivals the time it takes to get in to see a specialist at a research hospital (ie. up to three months).
2. On the day of your appointment, drive to a shady strip mall in a questionable part of town. You'll find the DMV wedged between an army surplus store and a crisis pregnancy center.
3. Bring all required materials with you including your marriage certificate, social security card, rental contract, passport, most recent tax return, and two utility bills dated within the past 30 days. Just to be safe, also bring a urine sample.
4. Arrive 30 minutes prior to your appointment, but expect to wait 45 minutes after your scheduled time before being seen by a helpful and happy to be alive DMV worker. If possible, bring your kids with you to the appointment. It makes an already pleasant experience even more joyful.
5. Greet sullen and clinical depressed DMV worker with a smile, despite the fact that one of your children has just found an almost empty bottle of soda underneath his chair and decided to finish it off.
6. Hand over your documents and wait for the DMV worker to hand them back to you and say "There is a problem."
7. Be perfectly calm as the DMV worker (who is twitching with glee) explains that you have failed to bring in enough utility bills with your name on it. You need two; you have brought in four, but only one is in your name. The other three are in your husband's.
8. Nod your head politely and say "That seems logical" when the DMV worker tells you that she cannot accept a signed rental contract, a recent bank statement, any other piece of mail, or a blank check from a joint checking account as proof of residence. The only thing that she can accept is a handwritten note from your husband verifying that you live together in the same house.
9. Ask the DMW worker the following questions about the note:
"Does the note need to be notarized?"
"Does my husband need to be present when I bring the note back?"
Don't act surprised (it will be hard) when the DMV worker tells you that the answer to both of these questions is "no."
10. Exit the building with children and drive to husband's work. Demand that he produce note on the spot. Once back in the DMV parking lot, the absurdity of all of this will begin to enrage you (if it hasn't already). Filter frustration into the production of an alternative note written on professional stationary. Sign it "Mickey Mouse."
11. Hand DMV worker both notes, with yours on top.12. Snicker to yourself as DMV worker hands papers back to you without looking closely at either.
13. Pay fees and wait for license to be printed.
July 17, 2010
Swim Team
The day after arriving in Florida, I signed my kids up for the YMCA swim team. In Pennsylvania, my kids held their own in the pool.
Here--not so much.
This morning was their first swim meet. In the middle of his 50-yard breast stroke race, Cortlen noticed that he was in last place. Seeing no reason to continue, he stopped swimming and began treading water in the middle of his lane.
"Keep going! Keep going!" we yelled encouragingly from the sidelines.
At least we weren't the only ones with a wayward swimmer.
"Turn around! Turn around!" yelled the parents of another little boy in the same race. Their son had made it to the twenty-five yard line and then, for unknown reasons, turned around and headed back to the starting blocks.
The winner of Camber's heat of butterfly did freestyle the whole way down the pool.
"I'm so doing that too next time," my daughter announced after the race.
Despite bumping into the lane dividers three times, Kellen won his heat of backstroke. When the ribbons were handed out, however, his wasn't blue.
"But I won!!!!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "You saw me! I won!!!!"
The concept of winning a heat but not having the best overall time is hard for most six year-olds to understand and accept. Mine did so with dignity and grace. He stomped on his ribbon and dangled it over the trash can until I confiscated it and put it in my purse.
"I'm done with swim team," Cortlen announced as we packed up the car to leave.
"Me too," added Kellen.
Camber was on board with doing another meet as long as she could swim freestyle in all her races.
"Guess what!" I told them once we were in the car. "You're signed up and paid through August!"
July 14, 2010
House Hunting
One of the best things about moving is that it legitimizes my favorite hobby: going through other people's houses.
This week, I've toured quite a number of homes for sale across the Orlando area in an attempt to narrow down suburbs and neighborhoods in which we might want to buy. Right now we're renting.
In Philadelphia, most people leave their homes when they are being shown to prospective buyers. In Orlando, there is an unwritten rule that at least one member of the household must be present during the showing, and be doing something weird.
This afternoon, my realtor and I toured six houses in one neighborhood. In house #1, a woman was drying her hair in the bathroom. She waved when she saw us and told us to watch out for the piles of underwear on the bedroom floor. Duly noted.
In house #2, a teenage boy was playing catch with his dog in the middle of the living room.
In the front yard outside house # 3, a woman was doing yoga. Inside the house, her college-aged daughter was canoodling on the sofa with her boyfriend under a blanket. We shielded our eyes.
I met all 9 occupants of house # 4. I cannot go there. Let's just say that we will not be buying that house.
I liked house #5 the best, at least what I could see of it. Three of the four bedrooms were off limits, as they contained the bodies of sleeping teenagers. The mother of the teenagers was floating on an inflatable raft in the pool when we arrived at the house. She was gracious enough to show us her home while dressed in a bikini. Over 100 family photos hung on the wall, most of which were awkward.
"You can peek in this room if you want," she told us, pointing to one of the closed doors. A knee-deep pile of dirty laundry blocked the actual entrance. "But if someone curses at you for opening the door, don't blame me."
We told her we'd come back at a more reasonable hour for a second look if needed. It was 2:15 pm.
On the way out of the house, we noticed that one of the sleeping teenagers had joined the realm of the living. He was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt that had the word "Elkaholic" printed across the back. He was methodically eating his way through a box of cold cereal.
"Hey," I said as normally as possible.
The boy belched a reply and reached for the milk, which he drank out of the carton.
I wonder if the boy and his mother are included in the purchase price of the home. If so, I'm definitely going to make an offer.
This week, I've toured quite a number of homes for sale across the Orlando area in an attempt to narrow down suburbs and neighborhoods in which we might want to buy. Right now we're renting.
In Philadelphia, most people leave their homes when they are being shown to prospective buyers. In Orlando, there is an unwritten rule that at least one member of the household must be present during the showing, and be doing something weird.
This afternoon, my realtor and I toured six houses in one neighborhood. In house #1, a woman was drying her hair in the bathroom. She waved when she saw us and told us to watch out for the piles of underwear on the bedroom floor. Duly noted.
In house #2, a teenage boy was playing catch with his dog in the middle of the living room.
In the front yard outside house # 3, a woman was doing yoga. Inside the house, her college-aged daughter was canoodling on the sofa with her boyfriend under a blanket. We shielded our eyes.
I met all 9 occupants of house # 4. I cannot go there. Let's just say that we will not be buying that house.
I liked house #5 the best, at least what I could see of it. Three of the four bedrooms were off limits, as they contained the bodies of sleeping teenagers. The mother of the teenagers was floating on an inflatable raft in the pool when we arrived at the house. She was gracious enough to show us her home while dressed in a bikini. Over 100 family photos hung on the wall, most of which were awkward.
"You can peek in this room if you want," she told us, pointing to one of the closed doors. A knee-deep pile of dirty laundry blocked the actual entrance. "But if someone curses at you for opening the door, don't blame me."
We told her we'd come back at a more reasonable hour for a second look if needed. It was 2:15 pm.
On the way out of the house, we noticed that one of the sleeping teenagers had joined the realm of the living. He was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt that had the word "Elkaholic" printed across the back. He was methodically eating his way through a box of cold cereal.
"Hey," I said as normally as possible.
The boy belched a reply and reached for the milk, which he drank out of the carton.
I wonder if the boy and his mother are included in the purchase price of the home. If so, I'm definitely going to make an offer.
July 13, 2010
Giving Candy to the Baby
I don't remember my kids eating any sugar until they were three.
My husband remembers things differently.
"Every time I turned around they were licking someone's ice cream cone!" he told me.
Except for ice cream cones, my older kids didn't eat any sugar until they were three.
Regardless, my fourth child isn't even two yet and there is no denying that there is a different set of rules in place.
There are lots of kids Cameron's age in my new neighborhood. Without exception, all of his regular playmates are only children.
Needless to say, the parents of these toddlers are appropriately horrified when my son toddles outside with a Slurpee cup or ice cream sandwich.
More often than not, I find myself trying to justify my actions by saying things like "There's only an inch of Slurpee in there" or "I cut the ice cream sandwich in half."
The other mothers typically respond by shielding their kids' eyes or removing them from the bad influence.
I understand because I was that mom the first time around.
"Things will change when you have your second," I always tell them.
They then smile politely and assure me with an impressive amount of confidence that their next child will be held to same rigorous dietary standards as their first.
I had the same aspirations when I was pregnant with Cameron.
It's worked out really well for me.
My husband remembers things differently.
"Every time I turned around they were licking someone's ice cream cone!" he told me.
Except for ice cream cones, my older kids didn't eat any sugar until they were three.
Regardless, my fourth child isn't even two yet and there is no denying that there is a different set of rules in place.
There are lots of kids Cameron's age in my new neighborhood. Without exception, all of his regular playmates are only children.
Needless to say, the parents of these toddlers are appropriately horrified when my son toddles outside with a Slurpee cup or ice cream sandwich.
More often than not, I find myself trying to justify my actions by saying things like "There's only an inch of Slurpee in there" or "I cut the ice cream sandwich in half."
The other mothers typically respond by shielding their kids' eyes or removing them from the bad influence.
I understand because I was that mom the first time around.
"Things will change when you have your second," I always tell them.
They then smile politely and assure me with an impressive amount of confidence that their next child will be held to same rigorous dietary standards as their first.
I had the same aspirations when I was pregnant with Cameron.
It's worked out really well for me.
July 12, 2010
The Urinator and the Toddler Potty
Friday morning I pulled out the potty and put it in the middle of my living room, just to see if it would generate any interest.It did.
Friday afternoon, I caught someone going to the bathroom in the potty. Unfortunately that someone was not my toddler.
"What's the big deal?" my six-year-old son asked when he saw the steam coming out of my ears. "It's just a toilet."
"What would possess you to do that?" I wanted to know.
The urinator shrugged his shoulders. The urinator's brother told me to look on the bright side: at least all the urine made it into the toilet. The urinator's sister pointed out the unfairness of the whole situation.
"How come Cameron gets his own potty and we don't?" she sneered.
This question prompted me to take a second look at the contents of the potty.
I counted to ten eleven times and took deep breaths until the urinator wondered out loud if he should call 911.
"How many of you peed in there?" I asked through gritted teeth.
Three hands shot up.
****
Please tell me I am not the only one. Please.
July 9, 2010
A Good Use of Time and Money
Kellen's bike helmet is packed in one of the hundred boxes stacked floor to ceiling in my garage right now. I played with fire for a couple of days but then my common sense kicked in.
"Bike helmets aren't that expensive," I told myself. "Especially if you get them off Craigslist."
This was my good idea. Fortunately, a woman in the area was selling just what I needed for $5. The woman, who signed all of her emails "Bigg Mama," wanted to meet me at a gas station 40 minutes from my house at 12:30pm sharp to do the exchange.
I left in plenty of time, but ran into a considerable amount of unexpected traffic. That, and 3 wrong turns, cost me 15 minutes. By the time I got to the gas station, it was 12:45pm and Bigg Mama was already gone.
Goal: $5 bike helmet
Result: Spent $12 in gas. No bike helmet.
"Bike helmets aren't that expensive," I told myself. "Especially if you get them off Craigslist."
This was my good idea. Fortunately, a woman in the area was selling just what I needed for $5. The woman, who signed all of her emails "Bigg Mama," wanted to meet me at a gas station 40 minutes from my house at 12:30pm sharp to do the exchange.
I left in plenty of time, but ran into a considerable amount of unexpected traffic. That, and 3 wrong turns, cost me 15 minutes. By the time I got to the gas station, it was 12:45pm and Bigg Mama was already gone.
Goal: $5 bike helmet
Result: Spent $12 in gas. No bike helmet.
July 7, 2010
A Day at the Beach
Today I took my kids to a "car beach." Shortly after I hauled out the cooler, assembled the beach umbrella, and got everyone lathered up with sunscreen, a car pulled into the spot next to us. After turning off the ignition, the driver of the car lit a cigarette and adjusted his radio. I know all of this because the man's car was invisible.
"Let's go build a sand castle," I said, shooing my kids to the water's edge.
I kept a close eye on the man from a distance. After his cigarette, he rustled through his glove compartment for a hard drink. Finding none, he began asking all of the people around him if they had anything extra to spare. One kind woman gave him a bag of potato chips. I offered him a juice box. He said that he would rather have $10. The woman took back her bag of potato chips.
The man spent the next several minutes singing uplifting tunes such as "Baby Got Back" to female passersby.
"Get in the car," I ordered my kids.
"But we want to stay at the beach!" they cried and stomped their feet in protest.
"Let's just moved to a different spot," I hissed.
The man overheard me. He asked me where I was going and if he could go too.
As much as I like company, I had my doubts about whether the man's car would make it.
It seemed more than a little unsteady.
"Let's go build a sand castle," I said, shooing my kids to the water's edge.
I kept a close eye on the man from a distance. After his cigarette, he rustled through his glove compartment for a hard drink. Finding none, he began asking all of the people around him if they had anything extra to spare. One kind woman gave him a bag of potato chips. I offered him a juice box. He said that he would rather have $10. The woman took back her bag of potato chips.
The man spent the next several minutes singing uplifting tunes such as "Baby Got Back" to female passersby.
"Get in the car," I ordered my kids.
"But we want to stay at the beach!" they cried and stomped their feet in protest.
"Let's just moved to a different spot," I hissed.
The man overheard me. He asked me where I was going and if he could go too.
As much as I like company, I had my doubts about whether the man's car would make it.
It seemed more than a little unsteady.
July 6, 2010
Swimsuit Shopping
The minute we crossed over the state line into Florida, I was seized with the impulse to buy a new swimsuit.
Given the fact that my current swimsuit is older than all of my children, most of the people around me wish that I was seized with that impulse a lot earlier.
When my husband came home from work tonight, he was met at the door by his male offspring. My daughter and I were already backing down the driveway.
We headed straight to Target, where I knew that I would be guaranteed to feel matronly by wanting a suit that looks best on prepubescent teens.
Sure enough, there was a large collection of mix-and-match swimwear on the racks that fit the bill. "Find a top that goes with these bottoms," I told my daughter, holding up a pair of tankini bottoms in my size. She returned a few minutes later with a halter top with cups that could hold grapefruits. "This is all they have left," she said.
I tried it on just in case my depth perception was a little off.
It wasn't.
"You know Camber," I said, as I struggled to squirm into another suit, "I think their sizing is a little off here. I'm trying on swimsuits that are the same size as the one that I have at home and these are all way too tight."
The dressing room attendant overhead me complaining to my daughter about their excessively harsh and unforgiving dressing room lighting and suggested that I try a different swimsuit brand.
Transitioning from Mossimo to Merona is very hard.
In the end, it proved too much to bear. I had to get out of there fast. A few minutes later, we wandered into a nearby Marshalls.
"Try this one on," my daughter begged. She handed me a black and white polka dot swimsuit.
My daughter clapped her hands in joy when I came out of the dressing room. "You look just like a Dalmatian!" she screamed.
That compliment alone should have been cause enough to put the swimsuit back on the rack. However, by that point, I had decided to sacrifice fashion and quizzical stares from total strangers for comfort. The bottoms go almost up to my belly button! I have never worn something so heavenly in my entire life.
My husband almost gagged when he saw the suit.
Fortunately, I had the good sense to cut the tags off before coming in the house.
Given the fact that my current swimsuit is older than all of my children, most of the people around me wish that I was seized with that impulse a lot earlier.
When my husband came home from work tonight, he was met at the door by his male offspring. My daughter and I were already backing down the driveway.
We headed straight to Target, where I knew that I would be guaranteed to feel matronly by wanting a suit that looks best on prepubescent teens.
Sure enough, there was a large collection of mix-and-match swimwear on the racks that fit the bill. "Find a top that goes with these bottoms," I told my daughter, holding up a pair of tankini bottoms in my size. She returned a few minutes later with a halter top with cups that could hold grapefruits. "This is all they have left," she said.
I tried it on just in case my depth perception was a little off.
It wasn't.
"You know Camber," I said, as I struggled to squirm into another suit, "I think their sizing is a little off here. I'm trying on swimsuits that are the same size as the one that I have at home and these are all way too tight."
The dressing room attendant overhead me complaining to my daughter about their excessively harsh and unforgiving dressing room lighting and suggested that I try a different swimsuit brand.
Transitioning from Mossimo to Merona is very hard.
In the end, it proved too much to bear. I had to get out of there fast. A few minutes later, we wandered into a nearby Marshalls.
"Try this one on," my daughter begged. She handed me a black and white polka dot swimsuit.
My daughter clapped her hands in joy when I came out of the dressing room. "You look just like a Dalmatian!" she screamed.
That compliment alone should have been cause enough to put the swimsuit back on the rack. However, by that point, I had decided to sacrifice fashion and quizzical stares from total strangers for comfort. The bottoms go almost up to my belly button! I have never worn something so heavenly in my entire life.
My husband almost gagged when he saw the suit.
Fortunately, I had the good sense to cut the tags off before coming in the house.
BLOGLUXE Funniest Blog Nominee!
I was just digging through a week's worth of emails and guess what I found!
I'm nominated again for Blogluxe's Funniest Blog Award! Woo Hoo! I feel tremendously honored, as even being nominated for this award is a big deal. Last year, I narrowly missed out on standing on the winner's podium and I am super psyched to be in the running again alongside some really funny blogs.
I feel a little lame asking you this on the heels of what is ironically one of my few serious posts, but will you consider voting for me?
If so, you can do so HERE. You can vote every day through July 12 if you'd like. Here are the official instructions/rules regarding votes as passed down to all the nominees by the higher ups:
Thanks so much!
I'm nominated again for Blogluxe's Funniest Blog Award! Woo Hoo! I feel tremendously honored, as even being nominated for this award is a big deal. Last year, I narrowly missed out on standing on the winner's podium and I am super psyched to be in the running again alongside some really funny blogs.
I feel a little lame asking you this on the heels of what is ironically one of my few serious posts, but will you consider voting for me?
If so, you can do so HERE. You can vote every day through July 12 if you'd like. Here are the official instructions/rules regarding votes as passed down to all the nominees by the higher ups:
Just a little side note - we are keeping a close eye on voting to make sure votes are legit. We have instituted an email authentication system (which is simple, we promise!) as well as cookie restriction. If you have any questions about this, let us know. Emails submitted for voting will not be used for any other means than to authenticate votes. If members of the same household who use the same computer want to vote the same day...just clear your cookies or open another browser and you should be all set.
July 5, 2010
The Robbery
First of all, I'm sorry that I went AWOL on you, but I have good excuse...we moved this weekend!
The move itself was uneventful, except for the fact that we got robbed.
The incident took place on the day that our moving van was being loaded. While the vast majority of our stuff was hauled to Florida in the moving van, we took some of our most important valuables with us in the car. After loading the back of the car with said items, I went inside to check the time (I was smart and left my car doors open). Thirty seconds later, I returned to find a garbage truck in front of my house and a trash collector running from my car to the cab of the truck. I yelled at the man, but it was too late; he and an armful of my stuff sped off down the street.
After we wrapped our minds around what had just happened, my husband and I did what any sane, rational couple who are moving out of state within the hour would do--we blocked off the entrance/exit to our neighborhood with our cars. While my husband hunted down the garbage truck on foot, I conducted an inventory of the back of the car and tried to determine what was missing.
When the trash truck reappeared, my husband was in the cab. Both of the trash collectors sitting next to him were sobbing hysterically.
"What's missing?" my husband yelled out the window.
I shrugged my shoulders. We had both seen the trash collector take a number of things from the back of my car, yet nothing seemed to be missing.
My husband hopped out of the truck with a confused expression on his face. He held up a handful of computer wires and a bundle of extension cords.
We had no idea what was going on until we talked with the garbage collection company on the phone. The shift supervisor explained that in attempt to make a little extra money, some of his employees salvage electrical cords from the trash they collect. They then strip the cords and sell the thin copper wires contained inside them to local scrap yards. On a good month, one can earn up to $75 by doing this.
It wasn't long after hearing this that I began to feel sick to my stomach. My husband spent the next 10 minutes on the phone with the supervisor, pleading for the trash collectors' jobs.
Clearly, it's wrong to steal, but I can't help be affected by what the trash collector took from my car, or, rather, what he didn't. The guy took $5 worth of wire, on top of which was sitting a laptop and wallet containing $75 in cash.
As my family has spent the past few months preparing to move out of a house that we bought at the peak of the housing market and sold at the bottom, I've found myself more than once saying "I feel poor."
The pile of extension cords in the corner of my new living room serves as a stark reminder that most definitely I am not.
The move itself was uneventful, except for the fact that we got robbed.
The incident took place on the day that our moving van was being loaded. While the vast majority of our stuff was hauled to Florida in the moving van, we took some of our most important valuables with us in the car. After loading the back of the car with said items, I went inside to check the time (I was smart and left my car doors open). Thirty seconds later, I returned to find a garbage truck in front of my house and a trash collector running from my car to the cab of the truck. I yelled at the man, but it was too late; he and an armful of my stuff sped off down the street.
After we wrapped our minds around what had just happened, my husband and I did what any sane, rational couple who are moving out of state within the hour would do--we blocked off the entrance/exit to our neighborhood with our cars. While my husband hunted down the garbage truck on foot, I conducted an inventory of the back of the car and tried to determine what was missing.
When the trash truck reappeared, my husband was in the cab. Both of the trash collectors sitting next to him were sobbing hysterically.
"What's missing?" my husband yelled out the window.
I shrugged my shoulders. We had both seen the trash collector take a number of things from the back of my car, yet nothing seemed to be missing.
My husband hopped out of the truck with a confused expression on his face. He held up a handful of computer wires and a bundle of extension cords.
We had no idea what was going on until we talked with the garbage collection company on the phone. The shift supervisor explained that in attempt to make a little extra money, some of his employees salvage electrical cords from the trash they collect. They then strip the cords and sell the thin copper wires contained inside them to local scrap yards. On a good month, one can earn up to $75 by doing this.
It wasn't long after hearing this that I began to feel sick to my stomach. My husband spent the next 10 minutes on the phone with the supervisor, pleading for the trash collectors' jobs.
Clearly, it's wrong to steal, but I can't help be affected by what the trash collector took from my car, or, rather, what he didn't. The guy took $5 worth of wire, on top of which was sitting a laptop and wallet containing $75 in cash.
As my family has spent the past few months preparing to move out of a house that we bought at the peak of the housing market and sold at the bottom, I've found myself more than once saying "I feel poor."
The pile of extension cords in the corner of my new living room serves as a stark reminder that most definitely I am not.
July 1, 2010
Baby For a Day
[visualize high-pitched whining]
"How come Cameron gets to eat with his hands and I don't?"
"How come Cameron doesn't have to wear shoes?"
"How come Cameron gets to go out into the hall during church?"
"How come Cameron doesn't have to eat carrot sticks for snack?"
Besides the bad grammar, there is something else about these questions that rubs me the wrong way.
I think it's the fact that they come from a group of people who suffer from a persecution complex and sincerely believe that their one-year-old brother eats off a silver spoon.
"Who wants to be a baby for the day?" I asked the afflicted yesterday morning. "I'll treat you just like I treat Cameron."
Two of my children sensed the crazy in my voice and retreated to their bedrooms until the smoke cleared. The third raised his hand and waved it wildly in the air. "Me! Me! Me!"
It was all fun and games until nap time.
"Time for bed little guy!" I said, heaving my six-year-old over one shoulder.
"I'm not taking a nap!" he screamed.
"Oh yes you are," I replied, depositing him into the crib.
He hopped out of the bed and ran out of the room. Runaway babies scare me.
For safety concerns, I was forced to pull out the port-a-crib.
***
I'm ready for you David. Bring. it. on.
"How come Cameron gets to eat with his hands and I don't?"
"How come Cameron doesn't have to wear shoes?"
"How come Cameron gets to go out into the hall during church?"
"How come Cameron doesn't have to eat carrot sticks for snack?"
Besides the bad grammar, there is something else about these questions that rubs me the wrong way.
I think it's the fact that they come from a group of people who suffer from a persecution complex and sincerely believe that their one-year-old brother eats off a silver spoon.
"Who wants to be a baby for the day?" I asked the afflicted yesterday morning. "I'll treat you just like I treat Cameron."
Two of my children sensed the crazy in my voice and retreated to their bedrooms until the smoke cleared. The third raised his hand and waved it wildly in the air. "Me! Me! Me!"
It was all fun and games until nap time.
"Time for bed little guy!" I said, heaving my six-year-old over one shoulder.
"I'm not taking a nap!" he screamed.
"Oh yes you are," I replied, depositing him into the crib.
He hopped out of the bed and ran out of the room. Runaway babies scare me.
For safety concerns, I was forced to pull out the port-a-crib.
***
I'm ready for you David. Bring. it. on.
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