Saturday, January 31, 2009

Double Six Word Saturday

House d'Plague, Can I Help You?


Because All Three Are Puking Now

Friday, January 30, 2009

Check the time stamp, people.

Yeah. That's because two times in as many days (this counts as yesterday's night because the sun has not risen and I want to be asleep for the night) I found myself cleaning up vomit.

Now, I'm not going to go into great detail (you're welcome). This is because I was reminded today of a little life lesson- although I really didn't need it. This one was not new information to me. However, take heart, mothers of young children. Here it comes. If I do not have a major role in your child's life (ie grandmother or... well, that's about it) or I do not currently have a child the same age as yours, I am not interested in your child's bodily expulsions. I have, in fact, the opposite of whatever open active interest is. Okay? Sure, I'll cheer for you if Little Jessie finally poops in the potty! But don't go into any smidgen of detail. That's far enough, right there. Your toes? They're kissing the line. (This lesson brought to you at 1:30 in the morning by that woman at work today who felt it necessary to describe what her daughter was coughing up. Godssake!)

So! Once again, cleaning up vomit. Poor Ethan. I'd love for him to actually make the toilet. This time it was the door knob (door KNOB) of the bathroom. (Ugh, cleaning out the lock with my lysol-wipe-guarded fingernail.) As I'm cleaning, Ethan is showering. Life lesson for Ethan! Dear child, whom I love with greater ferocity than the brightest sun burns, do not seem so cheerful as I'm on my hands and knees cleaning puke. I love you, but you test me.

Life lesson three. I need to work on my lung capacity (ie, how long I can hold my breath while cleaning before having to charge out of the bathroom to inhale). Apparently, it sucks.

As I settled Ethan in a nest on the floor of his room (as a head start), trash can at hand, I told him that it was for if he had to throw up again. And, if he thought he could make it to the bathroom, take the trash can with him, just in case he's wrong. "Like those other times," he said in reply. Life lesson number four. A little more humility, a little less matter-of-fact-with-a-little-smirk-thrown-in. Don't push it, kid.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009


My head. I'm waiting patiently for it to explode. I don't even get the point of sinuses.
I'm pretty sure Stacia gave me some kind of STD via computer.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Six Word... Monday...

I hate recycling and the cold...

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Wii Hissy Fit

So. The Wii Fit. The... video game. Yeah. Video games should not hand your ass to you, much less your sore ass. And thighs. And also, it's rude! The board- the board- made some jab about me tripping while just walking. This was after it gave me crap for my BMI- said it was fair and then trashed me anyway, frickin' thing. That was after it weighed me and blew up my mii, just expanded it on the screen- not a lot, grant you, but really, does any woman want to see a representation of her balloon even a little? Frankly, if it's going to be attacking me from the get-go... I just don't need that kind of pressure.

This thing has games. And by "games" I mean "one to two minute trials that make me feel fat, lazy, and somewhat whale-like". I admit, some of them are fun- right up until the end of the round where it actually says "uncoordinated" on the screen. The hell? Screw you, meanie bully video game.

And then there's also this whole test where you have to hit a soccer ball with your head, which supposedly has something to do with balance, but I don't know what getting hit in the head with cleats and panda heads (panda heads!) has to do with me showing that I have the ability to stand on my two feet.

There's also breathing. A section on breathing. There is a timed, scored section on breathing. Did you know it's okay to breathe out through your mouth but you really should breathe out through your nose? So they say, but you don't get a higher score for it, as they haven't made a controller small enough to fit up your nostril. Yet. So, really, if they're not going to give me more points, then I see no reason to do it their way.

But! It's not a waste! There are bonuses! (Other than the supposed health benefits and weight loss. We'll see, cruel exercise board.) There's a "bank". That bank keeps track of my minutes. And when I have collected enough minutes, I get a prize! (More workouts. For God's sake. Kill me.) No matter the prize suck-mastery, I'm still a winner!

Friday, January 23, 2009

This has nothing to do with my family, except, you know, the bit about the kind of society in which I choose to raise them.

Last night, I finally got to see our new president's inauguration speech (because I work for a Republican who didn't hold with playing that kind of nonsense on his radio) (and, apparently, there are certain stations and websites that don't think that kind of rebroadcast would be, i dunno, historic).

At last, I am represented by someone who I feel actually represents me.

Frankly, I was tired of the retarded second cousin standing for the family.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

...which explains why we're down to ten ornaments.

Our Christmas tree stayed up for a long time. A long time. And not because it was pretty or I'm religious. Just lazy. And then Sam said something about "fire hazard" and pulled the ornaments off and threw the tree out the door. (Fifteen minutes later, Connor came back in from shoveling the sidewalk bearing an ornament. Being the me that everyone loves and adores, I had to mock Sam and then he pointed out that I've likely thrown ornaments out every year myself. I've seen no proof.)

The stupid happy-birthday-Jesus tree left forty thousand needles all over the carpet (I know, I counted), and Sam decided to try to murder my vacuum with them. So I grabbed the broom and dustpan. So Sam wanted to trump me with the shopvac. Only, our shopvac is also a leaf blower- aka a blow-the-melted-snow-out-of-the-garage-er. This had been its most recent occupation. So the triumphant slamming down of the shopvac next to the pile of needles that I was constructing was mildly less triumphanty, due to the fact that the shopvac was, indeed, missing the motor. Anyway, by the time he made it back in the house, toting the leaf blower (which was still its current composition) I had already scooped the majority of the needles into the garbage bag held by the ever useful Ethan.

Needing a reason to have brought in the leaf blower, it became a way of drying Ethan's already dry hair and clothes. Which was fine with me. But then he turned it on me. Which was decidedly not fine with me. So then I decided to shake the excess needles off the broom. Over Sam's head. Because I'm that kind of bitch mature. The entire scene was melodically accompanied with Ethan's cries of, "Battle! It's a battle!", while he jumped up and down, cheering.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I call my motivational techniques "creative".

Sam came downstairs, a little exasperated. Seems Ethan was the only one that had made significant progress on the cleaning of his room.

"Call him down," I said. "Tell him he gets candy because he's doing so much better on his room than his siblings. And he can take it upstairs with him. He'll be sure to rub it in their faces."

Sam called him downstairs, I told Ethan. He chose a full pez dispenser.

Fifteen minutes later, back down the stairs he came. "All done!"

"With your room, or your candy?" I figured I knew the answer.


I congratulated him on it. Problem was, neither of the other two kids had come downstairs to kvetch about not having received candy. "And did you mention to the other kids that you got candy?"

I got an eyebrow raise. "No."

"And don't you think you should?" He happily ran off. The two remaining kids' bedrooms were done within a half hour.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Six Word Saturday

A la Cate.

Oh, my God. My snot's frozen.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Do they not get my need for my job to pay me?

We went to the bus stop this morning and waited. And waited. And waited. For the second time this school year, there was a school delay that I did not know about. Because I didn't bother to look for a delay. Because I assume that they have school when I don't even have to shovel the driveway at all. What, because it's cold??? It's WINTER, PEOPLE! It's SUPPOSED TO BE COLD.

Possibly, I'm more pissed about sitting at the bus stop for ten minutes then the whole actually having a delay... No, it's the delay. These people are ridiculous.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

leave four or mor'n you're just plain "eg-no-ra-moose"

When I was a child, whenever we traveled, we would stop at just about every Cracker Barrel we saw. This, of course, was when the food was good- I'm nothing but disappointed by them now. (Take note, Cracker Barrel bigheads! Just in case, somehow, no one has mentioned it to you, you are ruining your own business with the crap that you now serve. You give down-home cookin' a bad name!)

I'm sure, among many of its other fine qualities, one of the reasons my mother would stop there often was the store's ability to shut us (read: loud, obnoxious brats all a-quivery with pent up energy from being in the car for the last seven hours) the hell up. Plenty to look at, enormous checkers games, and, at every table (and several at ours because mom would, ahem, acquire them from the surrounding tables) were those triangle peg games. The ones where you leap one peg with another, and then take the jumpee off the board until only one remains. I used to challenge myself by starting the first empty space at odd places around the board because it was so easy.

And behold! Linky lovin' from my sister!

...Holy hell. When did I get so stupid???

Monday, January 12, 2009

I'm Killing the Earth.

The kids and I spent about 45 minutes breaking down boxes to be recycled tomorrow morning. We hauled the piles outside, and by "piles" I mean "holy hell we are so frickin' consumerific".
We stacked all those pieces of cardboard into two neat stacks.
We then placed the two recycling bins on top of the two neat piles of cardboard, with a paperbag of loose paper that weighed easily fifteen pounds in between. (Because, you see, while we don't have to sort plastic from glass, Paper. Does. NOT. Go. IN. The. BINS. (But the hell if I'm binding the loose papers with twine. The BAG is made of paper. You may recycle that, too! (Who even owns twine? And if you do, you shouldn't admit to it in public.)))
The theory is the bins will keep the piles of cardboard from blowing all down the street. And across the street. And up (yes, UP) the hill that pretends to be our driveway. And up that other hill that is actually a cliff that is the neighboring property. Like it did last recycling day. Dammit. I got my slippers wet and the recycling dude (who, I hope, keeps his spare teeth at home in a glass waiting for him to take a shower and be civilized when he's finished saving the planet? Because I pretty much wash my recyclables, so I don't know what the rest of you guys are doing to your recyclables to make that guy so dirty. Using them for a toilet, I imagine) saw me without a bra when I was chasing cardboard into the ditch. For godssake, the man's job is hard enough without having to see me like that.
The end result is, I know I don't find all that cardboard, so not only am I bad recycler, I'm actually a polluter. I'm actually making the environment worse by recycling.
But it's the trying that counts. Which is a great lesson. For the kids. Because that's what it was. A lesson. Not me making them do my work help me because my ears were falling off from the cold.

Friday, January 9, 2009

The Books are to the Floor as the American Smog is to Canada (yes, that's where we send it)

Emily is in tears at the top of the stairs, where I meet her on my way up.
"Why?" is all I need to say.
"Because I can't organize my desk drawers!" This is the task to which I set her about ten minutes ago.
"Yes. Yes you can. Know how I know?"
She gives me a shrug. But before I can elaborate she bursts out with, "Just because I can organize a closet doesn't mean I can organize dra~werrrrr~sss!" (We can all hear that whine, yes?) (Also, she is kick-ass at cleaning out a closet.)
I herd her into her room. Sort of. Mostly I just shove her through the doorway and stare aghast at the wreckage. Nay, the carnage. Because a tornado must have been knifed to death in a dank alley. Then someone set off a bomb in said alley and blew all the crap into Emily's room.
"Er, Emily? Why did I tell you to clean out your desk drawers?"
"I thought my room was clean when I told you it was." Fake innocent look.
"And, my love, what do you think, then, you should be doing?" Who cares if the drawers are messy when Littlest Pet Shop creatures and clothing are to the floor what an oil-tanker is to the Pacific?
"But it's impossible! It's too much to clean!"
"Are you for real?" I march her to my own bedroom. "Look at this. Now whose room is the bigger mess?" (Shut up, peanut gallery.) She gives me a pathetic whine. "WHO has more to clean up?" My voice is getting louder, but only in I-can't-believe-you're-going-to-try-to-complain-ity. "And! My room is twice the size of yours!"
"Yeah, but," she digs through her brain, tears still streaming, "you have Daddy to help you!"
I just stare at her, askance, in incredulity.
The weeping stops as she gives a wet snort-laugh.
She knows when she has been beaten. There is no defeating my clean-laundry-ridden, desk-paper-strewn, books-piled-everywhere logic.
I ask her, "Wanna trade?"
I've taught her well. She flees before I can turn her into my indentured servant.