Since You've Been Gone

I have decided that I am bipolar.  This is not a professional opinion, mind you; it’s a self-diagnosis based on past behaviors.

I spend the majority of my time on an even plane, but THEN I GET ANTS IN MY PANTS (or as Hubby affectionately calls it, “a bug up my @ss,”) AND I START CLEANING LIKEMARTHA STEWARTONSPEED!!!

Hubby loves it when this happens because, well, I gets sh*t done.  He once came home from work to find me standing on the counter organizing the top shelf of dishes.  (Granted, I was 9 months pregnant at the time and I was clearly nesting, and probably should not have been standing on the counter since I’m clumsy/dizzy/awkward even when I’m NOT pregnant.)  I hate it when he sees me doing housework.  I like to keep the magic behind the scenes . . . kinda like Disney World in Smalltown, Virginia.  That, and I like to keep his expectations low so that when I actually do some housekeeping I get all kinds of high-fives and chest bumps.  (Although the latter may be more for his enjoyment than any desire to give me accolades.)

Hubby’s been out of town for 9 days and will be returning tomorrow.  He has a lot to be proud of – I’ve, um, been busy.  I am NOT one of those moms who skwooshes her own baby food or concocts her own laundry detergent, so TRUST ME, this behavior is an anomaly.  I plan to return to my normal sloth-like behavior next week.

Things I’ve accomplished since Hubby’s been gone:

1.  Had the guy from Sears come out and repair our dishwasher, which had about an inch of schmat (you know that stuff you think of when you see the floor in a fraternity house?) and dishes that needed to be rewashed even after their spin through the dishwasher.

2.  Noticed a leak in the ceiling, called the home warranty company, and arranged for a plumber to come inspect the Master Bath.

3.  Scheduled appointments for contractors to come next week to give me estimates for how much of my children’s college tuition they will need in order to fix the tile in my shower.

4.  Put the fear o’ God in the lawn guy, who has been dilly-dallying instead of installing the trees that were supposed to planted in June.  (Seriously, our neighbors already hate us; we don't need to give them more fodder, and we agreed we would install these trees MONTHS ago.)  His excuse?  He has a lot of customers.  My response?  I don’t want to be last on your list.  Git ‘er done by Friday or we’re finding another lawn guy. 

5.  Built two book shelves.  Chopped the wood, sawed it, smoothed it, painted it.  Just kidding.  Opened the box from Target and read the instructions.  You know what I did NOT do?  Feed the fish in the tanks on top of the bookshelves.  Gee, I hope they don’t die.

I'm not sure why Small looks like he's
done something bad.  Maybe I should
take a look around while he's napping . . . 

6.  Repurposed the old bookshelf from Medium’s room.  Applied Contact paper to the back and dressed it up a little and voila!  Another flat surface on which we will place items that belong elsewhere.

7.  Painted the door from the laundry room to the garage with chalkboard paint.  We can write fun little messages to each other, and as an added bonus, muddy fingerprints won’t show as much.  That's the plan anyway.

8.  Changed the knobs and drawer pulls in the kitchen.  I painted the knobs a darker color so that they’d match the new drawer pulls that have been waiting patiently to fulfill their drawer-pulling destiny.

Not a particularly flattering photo
of Small.  But you know what?
You refuse to get outta Mommy's
picture?   Mommy posts your
weird little face on the
world wide internets.  

9.  Had the roof cleaned and the siding and deck power washed.  Well, Hubby made all the arrangements, but I wrote the check and left it taped to the front door, so clearly I deserve SOME of the credit for getting this accomplished.

10.  Had the house sprayed for ants, because with three boys and a dog, guess what?  We have ants.  Although why they were in the bathroom is beyond me.

Oh, and also?

Helped Large with his reading project poster, helped Large with his Spanish project powerpoint, got flu shots for all 3 boys, took Medium to art class, took Large to the batting cages, went to choir practice, went to two Boy Scout Den meetings and one Pack meeting, got a bikini wax, arranged for transportation to and from two baseball practices, drank wine with my girlfriends in my kitchen, made sure all the school library books were returned on time, bought shoes to match the dress I’m wearing to Hubby’s work function next weekend, got my toes done, remembered to call my Mother-in-Law on her birthday, took Medium to tutoring, and took the boys out for frozen yogurt.

If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap and gearing up for my next Manic episode, which will probably not arrive for another decade or so.

Glitter is Mommy Anthrax II: I Doubt Martha Has These Problems

The thing about Motherhood is that it provides me with a never-ending supply of anecdotes so that you, my readers, can laugh at my pain.  I choose to laugh right along with you because otherwise I would be locked in a rubber room in a stunning ensemble that doesn’t have armholes. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been on Pinterest.  It is such a time suck and I feel inferior to all the other women out there who have the time/creativity/army of employees to sew their own clothing, pack organic lunches, and concoct their own fabric softener.  

(Let’s pause here for a moment, shall we?  WHY would one make one’s own fabric softener, or any household cleaner for that matter, when these items can be easily purchased for minimal money?  That’s the beauty of progress . . . it’s 2012 and we can purchase these products already made!  It’s called Evolution, folks.  Aren’t we just regressing if we eschew progress instead of embracing the industrialization that eventually culminates in a trip to Target?) 

Okay.  Pinterest.

I was perusing the other day and got a bug up my *ss to make a Fourth of July wreath.  I made my necessary purchases last night during a particularly eventful (screeching, lollipop-throwing, "I wan git out") trip to the craft store, and today Medium and I got to work.  He cut out felt stars for me in red, white, and blue, and we decided to add glitter to the edges to make them spaaaakly.  We used a plate to catch wayward glitter and began decorating.  This is not my first time at the rodeo, you see, and I didn't want to make a mess.

In the interest of being frugal and teaching Medium a lesson in resourcefulness, I folded a sheet of paper in half and fashioned a little funnel so that I could pour the excess glitter back into the tube.  Wouldn’t want to waste any perfectly good glitter. 

I was on the last set of stars.  I worked at the counter, and Medium was sitting on the counter with his feet in the sink and playing with the faucet.  Yes, I know he’s 7; he’s easily entertained.  He extended the hose and was checking out the mechanics of the nozzle.  As I tapped the side of the glitter tube to make sure it settled, Medium turned the water on while it was facing me.   

Chaos ensued.

1.  It's a Beer Baby
2.  It's water and glitter, you sickos.
I'm not Monica Lewinsky

I jumped, startled, and glitter flew ev-ery-where.  It was caked onto my arm, but unfortunately I did not get a photo because I was too busy middle-naming him and experimenting with a new octave.

  

Trying to clean up glitter is like trying to get It’s a Small World out of your head.  You can try and try and try to get rid of it, but it’s still gonna be there.  (You’re welcome.)  Once glitter is on your hands, it magically ends up in your hair, in your eyebrows, in your ears . . . in every nook and cranny you have.  Since the glitter landed on the kitchen floor, it ended up on our feet, so we can look forward to soon seeing it in every room of the house.  I’ll consider it free decorating.  Every room can use a little bling.

For months I will be finding glitter in unexpected places.  That's what I get for liking the spaaaklies.

This is what was left AFTER I washed and scrubbed.

Yes.  That's gonna be there forever.

 It bears repeating:  Glitter is Mommy Anthrax.  That's correct . . . this NOT the first time glitter has proven to be my nemesis.  Read about yet another Glitter Fiasco here.  Apparently it's a lesson best learned the hard way.

Stuff That Could Only Happen to Me.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you can’t make this sh*t up.

All I wanted to do was sell my light fixtures on Craigslist so I could fund the purchase of fabulous new, more BoyMommy-appropriate lighting.  I figured I’d post an ad which would lead to a drama-free transaction between two consenting adults with differing tastes in lighting, and we’d be on our merry way.

Lo and behold, I found a buyer.  Using my master sleuth skills on the World Wide Internets, I discovered, inadvertently, that they are worth more than I first thought, so I placed the ad on CraigsList.  After a few days with no bites, finally a gentleman said he was, to use his words, "VERY interest" in all three pieces.  I told him I was firm on the price, he agreed, and he prepared to send me a check.  And then it got weird. 

Turns out “Frank” is not local.  He’s REALLY not local.  He’s from a state that I shall not name in order to protect his privacy, but let’s just say it rhymes with Schmichigan.   Therefore he has hired a mover to come pick up the light fixtures for him.  Frank told me he had mailed the check and that I would be required to use the excess funds he had sent to pay the mover he has hired to pick up the light fixtures.  It seemed like a lot of effort to go through, but I am willing to comply, and I expected that the amount would be for $200 or so more than the price of the light fixtures.  When I finally received the cashier’s check in the mail, however, the total was TWICE the price we had settled on.  So he's paying his mover just as much as he's paying me.

Dallas - deep in the heart of Schtexas!

But instead of paying the mover with that money,  I have now been “instructed” to send the remaining funds to a woman whose address indicates she lives in a state we’ll call Schtexas.  Wha?  Now I'm supposed to write a big, fat check to some woman who lives in the heart o' Dixie?

Then I get an email that “instructs” me to please continue correspondence using a different email address because he’s having “problems” with his other account.  And then I am told, and I quote, “You are required to send excess via money gram from any walmart shop or money gram outlet near you, the cost of sending should also be deducted from the excess.”  For the sake of brevity, I will ignore the obvious errors in grammar, mechanics, spelling, and syntax, though it pains me to do so.  I’m also going to ignore Frank’s tone, which I do not appreciate. 

At this point, I’m kicking myself for thinking this transaction was going to be simple, and I’m getting worried that I have gotten myself involved in something shall we say skeevy.

And then came the phone call.

It seems that, in Frank’s humble and unsolicited opinion, I am not conducting “good business.”  Apparently, I can trust Frank.  He told me so.  And if I am trustworthy, why then clearly I don’t have any reason to worry.  Frank wants to know, “why can’t you just complete the task?” 

Really, Frank?  IF that is indeed your name? 

I am done.  I am prepared to tell Hubby, “you were right.”  (You saw it here first, folks.)  Hubby was right.  I should have been content with those f*cking chandeliers and just let them continue existing like enormous, brass, formal eyesores in my otherwise casual home.   I mean, what goes better with Walmart slipcovers and too-small area rugs than fancy Framburg Napoleonic Lighting? 

So I tell Frank that I am not writing a check to Miss Ellie at Southfork, but that I will be happy to return the excess funds to him if he will provide me with an address.  This makes him nervous.  He mumbles something about “family,” reminds me that this is not “good business,” questions me again about “completing the task,” and says that he will get back to me and that I should wait for further instruction.

Here are my thoughts:

1.   One possible scenario: Frank is going to smuggle pounds of cocaine (Liters?  Kilos?  Bricks?  How does one measure cocaine?) in one of those chandeliers.

2.  Frank, who now has my home address, (which he needed for the check,) and my home phone number, (which I provided for purposes of correspondence,) is going to send someone to my home to breaka my kneecaps.

3.  I am going to stand trial for money laundering, tax evasion, drug smuggling, racketeering, etc. in front of Judge Judy, who will not appreciate my biting humor and witty sarcasm. 

4.  I will not do well in prison for several reasons:

• ALL the beds are close to the door.  [Please refer to BoyMommy's Hotel Room Theory.]
• I tend to cry when people are mean to me.  I think people in prison are not very nice.
• I’m quite sure their wine list will be too limited for my liking.
• I’ve already tried to knit one of those Martha Stewart Jailhouse Ponchos, but it did not go well.
• I will suffer from performance anxiety when I have an audience to pee, I’ll hold it, and, consequently, I will develop a bladder infection, to which I am already susceptible. 
• Orange is not my color, and I’d have to wear my flip flops with socks, because I sure-as-hell ain’t wearing open-toed shoes without a fresh pedicure. 

I leave you with this: should I go missing, tell my family I love them, and check for my body in Schmichigan or Schtexas.  Wink, wink.  Otherwise, I'll be hanging out in the slammer with my new,  above-pictured BFFs.