The Blue and Gold Banquet

Every few weeks or so, my boys will come home from their Cub Scout meeting with a patch. Or a bead. Or a piece of string. Lacking the necessary skills and equipment to do anything productive with these objects, I have instead been putting them into small ziploc bags and storing them on a shelf in my pantry.

Attending the Blue and Gold Banquet impressed upon me the necessity of getting my mother-in-law out here for a visit as soon as possible. She knows how to sew.

"I wonder if you can iron these things on," I mused out loud at the dinner table. The mother of a boy with seventeen patches on his shirt looked like I had just hit her in the face.

"Uh, no," she said. The way she said this made it seem as though ironing on a Boy Scout patch was the same as desecrating the American flag.

Did I mention that the mother was also wearing a Boy Scout uniform?



This was sitting in front of me on the table the entire time. I wanted to try it on so bad I could barely stand it. I reached out to touch it once, but a little boy snatched it out of my hands. He said that it was his and articulated a concern that I might steal it. His fear was legitimate. The minute I got home from the banquet, I ordered one off the Internet. It is scheduled to arrive in 4-6 weeks.

Sorority Girl

In a few weeks, I'll be giving a little talk to members of a local college sorority.

I don't know all the details yet, I'm sure they will require me to wear a pair of tiny shorts with Greek letters stamped across the buttocks.


I have never stepped foot in a sorority house, but I've heard they have dress codes.

While I am excited about what I'm going to talk about, what I'm really looking forward to is showing off my thighs to a 150 twenty year-olds.

All women over the age of 30 look really good in short-shorts. I am no exception.

In anticipation of this event, I have decided to push my hotness to the next level. I'm already a 10, as most mothers of four young children are, but my husband thinks I'm capable of more.

"This is a chance for you to get and stay healthy," he told me as he gestured toward the treadmill.

Yeah. That's gonna happen.

A Modest Proposal

Yesterday one of my neighbors texted me a command: "Come over and see my back yard."

The minute I received the text, I dropped everything hurried over there as fast as could so I wouldn't miss the rabid dog/naked sunbather that was hanging out on her lawn.

When I got there, I was profoundly disappointed to discover that the only thing in the woman's backyard--besides the yard itself--was the woman.

"Didn't it turn out great?" she asked. Earlier this week, she hired a crew of landscapers to spruce up her yard.

Before I could open my mouth, she shoved her landscaper's business card into my hand.

That's when I knew that my yard was bothering more than just me.



Our house was in foreclosure when we bought it last month and the yard is a mess. We plan to do most of the work ourselves, but we need some help picking out the right kind of sod and bushes and trees for our property.

Enter Frank.

Frank lives across the street and is a retired landscape architect from New Jersey. He has helped most of the people in our subdivision with their yards. Unfortunately, he isn't taking new clients. I have done everything I can think of to make Frank like me, including saying positive things about Newark and Trenton. None of these things has made a lick of difference.

The more Frank rejects me, the more certain I am that he is destined to give me access to his contractor's discount at Home Depot.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past Frank's house very slowly. While wearing shorts.

"That is not helpful to the cause," my husband stated matter-of-factly.

My legs are one shade above albino.

The Home Haircut

Most parents want their kids to go to college. I am pushing beauty school. A child who can do hair and makeup is much more valuable to me--and the general marketplace--than a Communications major. Or an English major.

"You feel that way because of your deficiencies," my husband said. He offered up Exhibit A as proof:

This picture does not do my so-called 'hack job' justice. My little guy is pretty cute but his hair cut is pretty awful.

Clearly I got a little too aggressive with the hair clippers yesterday. In my defense, my client is two.

"That's why I like to cut his hair," my husband said when he saw my masterpiece. What my husband can't wrap his mind around is impulsiveness. I have that problem in abundance.

"His hair looks hideous," he said mournfully.

"It will grow back," I reminded him.

I decided not to show my husband my brand new do-it-yourself hair coloring kit. I hid it in the bathroom cabinet. The woman who sold it to me told me that it was basically foolproof.

Cameron was wearing a hat while we were in the store.

XOXOXO

Last week, Cortlen was selected as his classroom's Student of the Week. This honor was accompanied by a medal made out of construction paper, a free homework pass, and 17 handwritten notes from his peers.

I found the notes when I was cleaning out his backpack over the weekend. Most are pretty typical: one boy congratulated Cortlen for trying out and making the Orlando Magic basketball team; another thanked my son for teaching him how to walk with his shoelaces tied together. Two of the letters, however, made me smile. Uneasily.

Shake It Up

When my two year-old gets upset, he shakes things. This isn't a problem if he is holding his blanket, a stuffed animal, or a can of oil-rubbed bronze spray paint.

However, things get ugly real quick when he is holding a cup filled with liquid.

Let me explain.

On Saturday, my husband took the twins down to Boca Raton to help my cousin with his Eagle Scout project. I stayed home with my daughter and Cameron.

We spent the morning painting our fingernails (Cameron included), eating cookies, and cleaning up cat vomit. At noon, my daughter announced that it was time to go out to eat.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked. She told me about a fast food Chinese restaurant with an endless supply of fortune cookies.

"You can eat as many as you want," she said authoritatively.

That sealed the deal.

Cameron held it together for most of the meal. While my daughter was consuming her third fortune cookie, he started to arch his back and make scary noises.

"We gotta go," I said quickly, popping out of my chair.

I wasn't fast enough. He grabbed hold of my drink and shook it. The top came flying off and the rest is history.

I owe seven people new shirts.

I have never been more mortified in my life. Except for the time that my son ran away from me at Macy's and they had to lock down the mall (we found him hiding in a dressing room 30 minutes later).

The people who were doused in lemonade were remarkably kind when they realized that the perpetrator was a frustrated toddler with issues.

I couldn't get out of the restaurant fast enough.

My daughter pouted the whole way home.

"No fair," she cried. "I was going to eat five more fortune cookies before we left."

My Spray-On Life

Quite unexpectedly, I have become the object of ridicule/admiration in my neighborhood...all because I have been spray painting my brass door hardware.

"Oh my gosh! Are you spray painting your doorknobs?" One of my neighbors asked me this as she stood on the sidewalk and watched me spray paint my door knobs on the grass.

"I think so," I replied without looking up.

Of course, the question that she really wanted to ask but didn't was "WHY are you spray painting your door knobs?" Instead, the woman faux complimented me on my ingenuity and wondered out loud what it would be like to have a house full of painted door knobs.

After a lengthy internal dialogue, the woman concluded that it would be weird.

That was yesterday. Today no fewer than 7 of my neighbor's friends have engaged me in conversation about painted door knobs. All of the women have already swapped out their brass hardware for something more desirable. They wanted to inspect my door knobs to validate their decision to spend $1000 on new hinges.

I denied their request to tour my house, citing irreconcilable differences. I'm not sure what "irreconcilable differences" means in relation to door knobs, but it sounds authoritative and that's why I used it.

The woman who lives directly across the street was the last person to hear about the doorknobs. She has a job outside the home, and thus doesn't love her children. She also has a moral problem with paying $1000 for different colored hardware.

"Can I write down the name of the spray paint that you are using?" she asked me tonight. I studied the woman carefully, looking for signs of disgust. Only people with bad morals paint their door knobs. And mow their own lawns.

The woman smiled at me and said she had big plans for her kitchen cabinet pulls. When she told me this, I invited her in to see all of my formerly white ceiling fans.

When the woman left, I gave her one of my cans of oil-rubbed bronze spray paint as a parting gift.

When I closed the front door, my husband observed something that I hadn't noticed.

"You made a friend," he said.

*****
Here's what I'm using:

Krylon Brushed Metallic Satin Oil-Rubbed Bronze Spray Paint
Got it at Wal-Mart for $3.88/can. Works like a dream.

Landscaping Help

Before we moved into our house, we had to have 10 trees removed from the back yard. We were sad to see them go, but they were diseased and/or dead. Two had already fallen into the pool.

Right now, our back yard is just dirt.

I've been hunting around for some landscapers to draw up a plan and help us install a new irrigation system.

I think I've found my man. While stuck in traffic on the freeway yesterday, a van pulled up next to me. I scrambled to write down the phone number and name of the company.




I'm not sure what a springler is, but I'm pretty sure I want one.

*****
Want a chance to win a $100 gift card to Walgreens? Head over HERE.

Book It Etc..

My kids' elementary school often rewards student achievements with certificates for free items, usually things on the dollar menu at fast food restaurants.

I hear about these certificates every day when I'm making dinner.

"We could go to {insert any national fast food chain} instead," my daughter suggests as she hands me a card good for a free cup of pinto beans or some other oddity. "My treat."

I love my children but know that actions speak louder than words.

Today, I collected all the Book It awards, Superstar Math tickets, and reading rewards and told my kids to get into the car. "Let's do this," I told them.

"We're going to redeem everything right now?" Camber asked. She didn't know whether I was a nut case or her personal savior.

We accomplished our task in less than an hour thanks to discipline, a strong desire to succeed, and drive-thru windows.

The guests of honor at our dinner table tonight were 2 hamburgers, 1 juice box, 1 junior Frosty, 1 bag of french fries, 3 personal pan pizzas and a six-inch sub sandwich.

It was a feast fit for a king.

"Don't you feel bad redeeming those things without buying anything else?" asked my husband. He was pretty horrified at what I had done, but not so horrified that he wouldn't eat one of the hamburgers.

"Are you asking me if I feel like I owe [insert fast food chains] something?" I asked.

My husband was afraid to answer.

"They brought this upon themselves," I said matter-of-factly. Any company that is going to market their products to my kids is going to have to accept the fact that I'm not going to play their game.

My husband rolled his eyes.

"I feel like the fast food restaurants owe ME something for pain and suffering," I continued. All of the things that I felt like they owed me were not on the dollar menu.

He rolled his eyes a few more times and said something about picking battles and social etiquette.

From this point forward, my husband will be redeeming all Book-It, Math Superstar tickets, and reading rewards.

I hope he's hungry.

Rejected

Last night, our kids stayed up until 9pm (the middle of the night for them) to watch the Duke v. Miami basketball game on television.

Today we had a very happy Valentine's Day.

"I hate my family," announced Cortlen at the breakfast table as he rubbed his eyes.

"Just wait until your thirteen," I replied. "Then you'll really love us."

I made cupcakes for Kellen's class party. I packed the leftovers in my kids' lunch boxes.

"How did each of you like your cupcake?" I asked when they got home.

"What cupcake?" barked Cortlen. He still hated his family.

My husband and I decided to give each of our kids valentines this year. Tim gave one to Camber. I made the boys' cards and put them on their beds.

"Where's my freaking valentine?" Cortlen screamed, just ten minutes ago.

"Watch your mouth," I warned. It took awhile, but Cortlen eventually found his valentine on top of his pillow, right where I had left it.

"Let me see your valentine," he snapped, snatching the card out of Kellen's hand.

His theory turned out to be false: I had not put a $10 bill in his brother's card and not his.

"When you are tired, you feel persecuted," I said simply and told him to go brush his teeth. It was time for my valentine to go to bed.

"You feel persecuted!" she shot back instinctively. That's when I realized that he didn't know what the term 'persecuted' meant. I turned off the light in his bedroom.

"My family is evil!" he screamed as I shut the door.

Two minutes later, he was fast asleep.

I just found this outside his door:




It's the card I gave him. Awww. How sweet.

Chinchillas

Earlier this week, one of my daughters' classmates brought her pet chinchilla to school for show-and-tell.

Since then, everything out of my daughter's mouth has had the word "chinchilla" in it.

"I want one really bad," she told me at dinner the other night.

I am an expert on lots of things (namely marine otters and, now, since it's Black History Month, Oprah Winfrey and Harriet Tubman) but my knowledge of crepuscular rodents is embarrassingly limited.

"It's a cross between a mouse, a rat, and a rabbit," my daughter informed me gleefully.

"My three favorite things," I replied.

Last night, my husband handed her a mouse trap. "If you can catch one," he told her. "You can keep it."

Right now, the trap is set on our back porch. I told her she might have better luck if she stuck it in our attic.

Central Florida's Finest

I've always wanted to buy a pick-up truck, but have been waiting for the right incentive.

Today, I think I found it.



Good things come to those who wait.







Yowzers.

The Squatters Part 2

On Saturday, my husband made face-to-face contact with the squatter living in our attic. When he climbed back down, he announced that our uninvited guest is a rat the size of a chihuahua.

"You saw it?" I said doubtfully. The crawl space is suffocatingly small and pitch black.

My husband didn't answer me. He just grinned broadly and pointed to his new head lamp, which he bought on clearance at T.J. Maxx a few days back.

The purpose of the bizarre purchase was suddenly made clear.

Having identified the problem, we were then faced with two ways of solving it.

A. Hire an extermination company. A neighbor recommended one that will guarantee the job for $100.

B. Spend all weekend buying an excessive assortment of mouse traps, bait, and lures and risking one's life and wasting one's valuable time by crawling into the rafters of our house at all hours of the day and night to set said traps and obsessively monitor them.

Before church, he climbed up there in his suit.

Cost of traps + time + suit cleaning + marriage therapy= >$100.

As you surely have guessed by this point, my husband chose the road less traveled and so far, it hasn't made a bit of difference.

I can still hear the rat (s).

Mystery of Life # 423

There is a park by our house that has three jungle gyms, a basketball court, and a public restroom with an electric hand dryer.

Explain this to me:

Why, when my kids have all of these toys at their disposal, do they (and all their friends) prefer to play with the dead bird carcass?




I don't understand.

The Toxic Dishwasher

Two days ago, our dishwasher gave up the ghost in the middle of a wash cycle. My husband and I spent most of yesterday evening hand washing dishes and bailing out stagnant water. It was all very delicious.

This afternoon, I took the kids to an appliance store to shop for a replacement. The salesman took one look at me and licked his lips. He could smell desperation.

I told the man right up front that I had four kids and wanted a dishwasher that could get me through the next decade but didn't cost me an arm and a leg.

"This one has a special wash cycle just for china and crystal," he told me, pointing to a stainless steel contraption that cost $989.

I laughed like a hyena. Then I wandered over to the far corner of the store, where all the low-end reject appliances hang out.

My friends.

Right away, I found a dishwasher that wanted to come home with me. She was 40% off and had exactly three buttons besides the on/off switch.

The salesman wrinkled his nose when he saw me writing down my new friend's serial number.

"I strong suggest that you buy this one instead," he said, pointing to a $675 machine. He opened up the door so I could look inside. I didn't know what I was looking at, but I nodded my head and told the man that I was very impressed.

"The great thing about this dishwasher in particular," the man told me, "Is that it is made of completely non-toxic parts. Your children will never sick by eating off dishes washed in this machine."

You can imagine how terrified I was when I heard this news.

"Do you mean to tell me that all the other dishwashers in this store cause cancer?" I asked. Fearing for my life, I backed away from the row of appliances.

The man told me not to be ridiculous. He could neither confirm nor deny that the less expensive dishwashers in the store were carcinogens. All he knew for sure was that the $675 model was safe to use.

I didn't ask, but I'd be willing to bet that the $1000 model reduces your cholesterol.

I left the store without buying my new friend. I'm going to back tomorrow morning to get her, when the salesman is not there.

If I'm going to put my family in harm's way, the last thing I want to do is put the salesman--who works on commission--in a position where he is indirectly responsible.

The Expert

Marine Otter AKA "Sea Cat" AKA My Area of Expertise

I've always wanted to be an expert on something people care about. That's why I got my doctorate in medieval literature.

As it turns out, I grossly overestimated the popularity of The Canterbury Tales.

This week, I've been given a second chance. I can say with a tremendous amount confidence that I know more about marine otters and their habitats than most people in America.



For the first time in my life, I feel whole.

****
What endangered animal/historical figure/national park/U.S. President is your subject of specialty?

As long as it's not the marine otter, we can be friends.

The Pinewood Derby

Some would say that the reason why you become a boy scout is to participate in the famed Pinewood Derby.

For others, the annual event is a disincentive for joining.

Last week, each of my boys brought home a small rectagular box from their pack meeting, which I immediately put on top of the refrigerator for safe keeping.

I remembered the boxes at 8pm the night before the race.

"The boys have to decorate these before we go tomorrow," I said, tossing the boxes on the kitchen counter.

The minute my husband saw those boxes he broke into a cold sweat. "You don't understand," he replied.

I rolled my eyes and told him to stop being dramatic. I was prepared and empowered. Earlier that I day, I had purchased a dollar store glue gun and an industrial-sized tub of glitter. My kids could decorate anything in less than two minutes if they had to.

When my boys opened the boxes, I saw right away that both sets were defective. Specifically, there wasn't a car inside either box, but, instead, a solid block of wood.

"What is this?" I said in disbelief as I held up the piece of wood.

That's when my husband told me that my problem had to do with sequencing. You can decorate your pinewood derby car. But first you have to carve it.

I sucked in my breath sharply at his hideous and unexpected news.

"It's going to be a long night," he sighed.

I reminded him that the boys would and could help him. Then I remembered that neither of them can be trusted with a plastic knife, much less a power saw.

In the end, my husband stayed up until 3 in the morning fixing the blade on his saw so he could make one vertical cut on each block of wood.

"It wasn't that bad," I reflected out loud after the event. Despite the delays in construction, both of the boys came home from the race wearing huge smiles and plastic medals around their necks.

My husband shuddered and put a blanket over his head. "I don't want to talk about it right now," he said.

Maybe I'll buy him a boy scout uniform for his birthday.