I know I've had too much to drink when TLC gets me in the feels.

I was watching Sister Wives on TLC, and these women were, to represent their relationship(s), physically positioning themselves in reference to their husband- and essentially only in reference to him, and it's all awkward and some of them don't know where they should be, and there's a moment where one woman uses herself to link their husband to another wife (which is more than telling in itself), and another ends up behind him, and they wonk themselves into place, both so to speak and literally...

And then the husband says something along the lines of, "Well, fine, but... this is a family. And how does this work if I were to die? Because this is about all of you in relation to each other."

And then I teared up because, seriously, what the hell, ladies? Don't you get that the goal is a cohesive family, not you all as satellites to this (supposedly) reluctant planet? And shouldn't you, as the polygamists, grasp this better than I, the one who is pretty sure to cut a bitch, given the right ratio of "skank-flirting-with-my-husband" to "level-of-my-drunkenness-plus-proper-girlfriend-who'd-have-my-back-depending-on-how-many-friends-skank-has"? Math is only sometimes my strong-suit, but I'm pretty sure it's sound, here.

A Little Butt-Crack Among Friends

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room- yes, a full length mirror. If you don't have one, you are doing yourself a disservice. You can often tell someone who doesn't have a full length mirror in their house because, daa-yum, you should not be wearing those pants.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked- yes, naked. I would make excuses about having just gotten out of the bath, which is true, but this is my bedroom, y'all. I walk around naked. Get past it.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed- okay, yes, making the bed naked is a little odd, I admit, but it was naked, too- sheets came off and never went back on this morning. And I wanted to go to bed. And Sam's not home. And I am not sleeping on a naked bed, that's just skeevy. And I'm a little drunk. But it's all fine because the sheets are now on the bed.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed, when I noticed that the sunburn on my lower back was smaller than usual. I know, odd sentiment. But the fact is, as I work outside, inevitably my shirt- usually a tank-top, hence the matching burned shoulders and upper back- works its was upward, revealing the hitherto un-publicly-known lower back (oh, hell, and love handles and belly). This is due to the fact that the stretchmarks that decorate said belly and love handles stretch all the way around my waist. What in the living hell was stretching during pregnancy that my back had to get involved? Please answer me that.

Several moments of drunken contemplation led to me the conclusion that this- the smaller burn area- is not because today's shirt was longer than usual. No, indeed. This was because said shirt was not nearly as tight, leading it to not have to work so damn far up over the aforementioned love handles.

Excellent.

This, however, was not the greatest of revelations in those few confused moments. The far more profound one was that this patch of sun burn sat directly on top of the crack of my rear. There is a T printed on my ass. The problem with this? Exactly how much of my crack was I showing off today? For it to be burnt right to the very upper edge, my pants must have been slipping down past that point repeatedly. So during all this yard work, I'm actually playing plumber. And did I mention the T my tush is donning?

I only have myself to blame. I'm down eight pounds to where I was last year (yeah, woohoo, except it was twelve pounds), which leads to the offending moon-show, and I refuse to buy new pants until I drop more. This hasn't happened in eight months, yet here I wait. It seems so stupid to spend money on clothes you hope to shrink out of. As I am the Official Bitch of Murphy's Law, something like my buying pants would lead to me losing weight in a manner to thus lead to me not being able to wear those clothes.

I'd just lose it in the form of a dog attack to my thigh or something.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

I just paid eighty bucks for the doctor to tell me to put my daughter on the BRAT diet.

Because apparently letting her eat fried chicken and grapefruit with an upset stomach is a bad idea.

Apparently.

Go me.

I'm an awe-inspiring mother.

Merry Christmas... and yes, he was back in at 6:20, and I expect him there again in five minutes.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring... oh, wait...

3:08am

*Knock Knock*
"Go back to bed," I say, groggily.
"But I threw up."
"Oh, no."

Poor Ethan. What a way to start Christmas. Poor me. Is there any possible way to get puke out of a mattress? Especially at three in the morning?

I set him up in a little nest right outside the bathroom door. He refuses the light being turned off, though. He's up again at 4:20. And by "again", I don't mean to imply that he sleeps in the intervening time...

5:10am

There is whispered conversation. Connor greets Ethan.
"I'm throwing up."
"On Christmas?!"
Because he has a choice in the matter? He didn't take into account the scheduling conflict?

Emily and Connor wait while Ethan throws up again at 5:20. There's nothing for it. We give up on the notion of sleep and go down to rip open some presents.

We've finally given in and given Connor his cell phone. I decided to put it in his stocking, since it's normally the last thing they tear into, yet it's the first thing he does. I hurriedly grab the video camera to catch his reaction. He's shocked into silence for a solid three seconds. A record. I look down. The friggin' camera is paused.

Moving on, I pull a large present out from under the tree to give to Ethan. Apparently this is the keystone gift. The tree decides it would prefer a horizontal life. It dumps water everywhere, breaks a tree-side's worth of ornaments, and irreparably damages the tree stand.

I think it's time to break out the espresso flavored vodka for my coffee.

I hope this morning is going better for everyone else.

The Damn Dryer Was Giving Us Trouble Again

For some reason, the lint trap isn't very good at the "trapping" bit of the equation. This means that every once in a while, I boost Sam into the attic and he has to hot-foot it over to the vent, reach up into the roof-line, and pull a small quilt out of the little bird-blocker screen. The first time we did this, Sam discovered that the geniuses that had installed the vent hoses in the attic for the dryer and the two upstairs bathroom exhaust fans decided to be generous with said hosing, allowing them to coil on the "floor" of the attic. This led to those loops being full of water. And by full, I mean a gallon of water each. Yeah, not exactly useful in the "exhaust" department.

Anyway, we did the attic gig a few days ago, but the dryer has been more picky than usual, deciding periodically that, no, it was not ready to start at the moment, so bugger off and maybe it'll give it a shot later. So we figured that maybe it was time to take the thing apart and give it that cleaning that you're supposed to... every year? I dunno. We've done it once, ever, and the thing is eleven years old. And the only reason we did it that once was because the belt had to be replaced. It's one thing to never clean something you have to crack open, it's another thing to have to crack it open, look at the mess, and still decide to not clean it. So we pulled off the back, pulled out the start of the exhaust line, cleaned all that mess and scored thirty cents. Not bad!

Finally we pulled off the front to reveal approximately four thousand legos, a couple buttons, an enormous quilt, a poor poor motor with fur like a bear, and! Drum roll please! Another $7.59 in change!

Well worth the effort. Oh, and we got the dryer running again. But, hey, almost eight bucks! It was like Christmas.

No, seriously. I do not care about your opinion.

So! Recently, we've had a bout of H1N1 up in this hizouse. Or not. Who knows. What I do know was Emily got a big-ass but short-lived fever, a little bit of tired, and a slightly longer lasting cough. No belly pains, no lethargy, no dehydration. Several days later, Ethan followed suit. There and gone. From what I can tell, this either was or was not piggy-flu. So I am going with it was, and the rest of us developed the proper anti-bodies from the exposure. So, yay! All immune! Or not. Because it doesn't matter anyway. There is no vaccine to be had in our area, and even if it were, I'm not entirely sure I'd be willing to take it out of the noses hands of people who are at significantly greater risk than we. Also? I'm not looking for opinions here, so you just go ahead and marinate yours in your delightful noggin.

So what the hell is my point, you ask? Just this:

During Ethan's aforementioned illness, he was belly-down on the floor, playing a board game with Connor.

Sam: He's not getting this whole "sick in bed" thing.
Me: Yeah. We're gonna have to teach him, I guess.
Sam: We could cut off his legs. That'll keep him in bed.
Ethan: No, that'd keep me right here.

Because that's just how this family rolls.

She's a fortune teller this year. Gee, thanks, magic 8-ball!

Emily had a Halloween party at school- at night, sans parents, a first. When I went in to pick her up, I walked in just ahead of a teen girl and her (I assume) boyfriend. Just as I was about to greet Emily, said teenage girl shouted, "Emily!" Instead of responding, Emily just glared at her. Obviously not giving a damn that Emily did not reply, she walked away, saying to her boyfriend, "That's the girl who always..." I didn't catch the rest. (Thank god?)

So I get Emily into the car and start quizzing her:

Me: Who was that teenager?
Emily: Brooke.
Me: And what did you always do?
Emily: Chased her.
Me: What? Why? And why didn't you say hello?
Emily: Because she's evil.

Yeah. So that ended that part of the conversation. I asked her what she did at the party. She ate and danced and did nothing. And then:

Emily: Oh, and limo.
Me, struggling to figure out what the hell that could possibly relate to- after all "Follow the Leader" is now called "Train". And no, I didn't yell at her to call it the right damn name or nothing at all. No, I didn't. You can't prove it: Limo? What is that?
Emily: Oh. Uhm, limBO.

And that ended the entire conversation because I couldn't take anymore.

Oh, wait. Here's my wine!

So, my kid. The oldest one. He turned twelve recently. Twelve. What the hell? I'm not sure how all that happened, but it did. My friend, Cassie, passed along birthday greetings:

Flutterby: your kid!
had a birthday
happy birthday to your kid!
me: didn't we already talk about his birthday?
Flutterby: we talked about that he was going to have one!
and then i forgot
me: oh
okay!
Flutterby: and i don't wanna lose my place as favorite online flutterby/cassie
me: happy it's-been-12-years-and-you-still-haven't-lost-the-weight to me!
Flutterby: woohoo!

It's been a very long and a very short dozen years. I was reminded of just how long the journey has been when a customer came in today, close to tears. It seems that she had just had to ditch the grocery store because her two year old terror angel had refused to sit in the cart. She was, at that moment, still in desperate need of food because the cupboards were bare- all young-mother-hubbard-esque. And also he refused to get dressed for twenty minutes this morning- what she was waiting on him for, I don't know.

Poor woman was at the end of her rope. I did not ask where the kid was, at this point, or why he couldn't be wherever the hell he was now while she ran to the grocery store. I also did not point out that the terrible-twos are far outawfuled by the terrible-threes. (No one ever mentions this to first-time parents of two year olds because we're all afraid they might decide to just cut their losses now.)

Talking the woman off the edge made me grateful to be past those early stages, but it also reminded me... oh shit, y'all, I'm about to have a teenage boy. I am so screwed- where's my wine?

Scared and Pissed at the Same Time: A Normal Set of Emotions for a Mother

Connor beats me home on school days. Usually. With no warning, however, he did not today.

Me: Hi, my son Connor is in seventh grade there. He didn't come home and I'm just wondering if there's an after-school activity he might be attending?
School Secretary: Connor... hmm, actually, yeah. Dark hair, it's longish kinda...
Me: Shaggy, yes, that's him.
SS: Yeah, I was up there earlier, and I think he's staying after school for the book group.
Me: Ah, okay. Thanks so much, I'll beat him when he gets home.
SS: Alrighty, have a good day.

Nature + Carelessness = Multiple Life Lessons

This is called foreshadowing:

Emily: Mommy, can I put my new water bottle in the freezer?
Mommy: It's not a very good idea. If the water freezes, it'll break the bottle. I guess if you only leave it in there a few minutes it will be fine, but you can't forget about it.

In fairness, she remembered it the first time she attempted this. The second? Notsomuch.

Emily, running in with tears in her eyes: Oh, no! I forgot about my water bottle! Mommy!

Mommy: Okay, well, this here is a double life lesson. First, you didn't take care of your stuff. You weren't paying attention and you weren't careful. Also, you didn't listen to me. This is the end result. Second, this is representative of all that is wonderful and life-giving about water on our planet!
Daddy, taking bottle: It tried not to break. Look, even the bottom bowed out. This is really cool!
Emily, perking up for the first time: Really?
Mommy: Oh, yeah. Why'd it split?
Emily: *sigh* Because the water expanded.
Mommy: Yep. Why do the rocks in our yard crush up every winter?
Emily: I dunno.
Daddy: Same reason.
Emily: *confused look*
Mommy: The water gets into those tiny little cracks and expands when it freezes and the rock breaks up and gives moss and grasses a place to grow and over time you get life and life and more life! That's why water is so great and part of the reason it's life-giving.
Emily: Cool.
Mommy: Also, that's why you don't have a water bottle anymore.
Daddy: But it's really neat to look at now.

UPDATED (already): I finally post a picture of one of my kids...

...and this is what you get.

Connor apparently "dropped" a stick on Ethan's face? The question mark- and also my confused nose wrinkling- is because, yeah, I don't get it, either.

Well, anyway, here's the result:

Yep, it starts just under his eye. And, yes, I did make him hold still while I went searching for the camera. One day, when he's scarred, this is the image he can use to burn some shame into Connor. Or, I don't know, give him credit. Scars are "manly" and men are strange creatures.

UPDATE: Here it is, less than two hours later:

You Can All Just Leave Your Keys Right Here in This Bottomless Pit

I know that anyone who reads my blog is too smart for this information. Perhaps, though, you could just send a link to the people in your life to whom you know this advice pertains.

And, for those of you who arrived at this post through a link in a friendly email or perhaps after following a url from a crumbled piece of paper shoved hurriedly into your hand by a well intentioned if not all too subtle relative... they didn't mean you needed to read this... yeah. They meant they were sure you knew someone who knew someone who should read this for their own good... right. Uh huh... maybe you could just take a quick skim-zy over it anyway?

So, let's say your driving along a highway. For simplicity, there are, on this highway, two lanes of traffic headed in the same direction, this is the direction you're headed, too! There are many, many signs along the road. They say something along the lines of "55 (or 65/75/80) STATE SPEED LIMIT". For starters, let me interpret "STATE SPEED LIMIT" for you. This means "I will make that little arm on my speedometer hit said number". I know it seems like what that sign is saying is "limit means no more than, so just make sure you do 55 or less", but that's not what it means. The "or less" must go. Holy hell, just hit the speed limit. If you can do fifty, you can do fifty-five. Why? Because I goddamned said so.

(For those of you who are now yelling at the screen, "Fifty-five? What do you mean fifty-five?! They should be doing over that!", okay, I get what you're saying. Shut up now. You're scaring your family with your incoherent screaming. A? I'm not advising anything illegal (regardless of what I do in my own life) because the hell if I'm gonna get sued because some moron can't identify a state trooper when they see one. And B. Isn't it enough that I'm just getting these assholes up to the limit? Plus, I'm about to give the more important advice, so settle down.)

Okay, class. Eyes over here. Back to the highway. You are now traveling at the speed limit. Of the two lanes, which one are you traveling in? The left lane? Wrong, Johnny, sit the hell back down. The right lane is for normal driving. The left lane is for PASSING. What's passing? That's what the rest of us are currently doing to you. Or would be, if some other idiot- and I'm not naming names, *cough*JOHNNY*cough*- wasn't in the left lane keeping pace with the right lane. Let me explain further. Have you ever wondered why there are so many other assholes out on the road? Why they all seem to come flying up from behind you, ride your ass for a minute, then veer out from behind you, into the right lane, get ahead of you, only to veer back into the left lane? That's because they aren't the assholes in this scenario. They're hoping you will suddenly come to your senses, then, within a minute, they've learned their lesson, and have to get around you by passing on the right. Get the eff out of the left lane! Are you passing someone? No. This is a highway, not a free-for-all. Move. Over. Now. The interesting thing about this part is this is not just common sense. It is not just basic decency. It is not just a regular courtesy, some made-up rule that the rest of us abide by because some how we are in sync with each other. In a ton of states, it's an actual law. And it's not even one of those pesky ones they never tell you about. The have signs. They post those signs- at regular intervals, even. Sometimes that sign seems to be more apparent than the speed limit signs I kindly pointed out earlier.

So let's say, now, class, that you are driving the speed limit, you are in the right lane. You are approaching a car in the lane ahead of you. They have not listened thus far in the lecture, and are traveling at a less than reasonable speed. What to do? Change lanes? Okay, that's right- and you'll move back to the right lane after you've passed the other car? Good, good. Now how are you going to change lanes? (You know what, Johnny? Don't even bother giving me whatever stupid answer was going to come tumbling from your pie hole. Just go stand in the corner.) The correct answer is, "I will not only signal my lane change and check my blind spot, I will make sure I'm not about to cut off a car that is already passing in the left lane, especially if that person has chosen to do so at a higher rate of speed than I." You can signal using these lights on the outside of your car that are wired to that little stick thingy that sits behind the steering wheel. They let the other drivers around you have the slightest bit of warning before you pull some jack-assed maneuver. Your blind spot is this little space just back and to the side of your car that you cannot see using your rear view mirror- you do use your mirrors, right?- so you must actually turn your head in order to see this area. I know, I know, actually using muscles within your body to do anything besides flip someone off seems like a lot more effort than it's worth. Give it a shot, though. It might save you something in insurance premiums.

Okay, that's it for today. Next time, we will discuss how allowing someone to merge in ahead of you in traffic does not make you less of a man, why it's impolite to keep your brights on when you're behind someone, what to do on the highway when there are three lanes of traffic (god help us all), and why you do not always have to lead the pack. 'Til then, turn in your licenses and stay the hell off the road. Thanks in advance.

I Like My Coffee Like I Like My...

Let me preface this by saying that Sam neither drinks coffee nor grew up with anyone who did.

Yesterday morning, Sam decided to make me coffee. This was the third time he attempted it. Through trial and error, watching me, listening to me describe the process, he pretty much had it figured out. Still... something was wrong.

Me: You didn't do it right.
He: Yes I did!
Me: Thank you, it's really nice of you. But you didn't do it right!
He: You know, I'm tired of this! I did it exactly the right way! I put the water halfway between min and six on the "water" side! I put four scoops into the filter, I hit the "on" and "1-4 cups" buttons! I did it exactly how you told me to!
Me: Okay, I hear you. But it's not right! It's too dark and there's not enough! If you had put in that amount of water, it would be filled to here. I've done this a million times and it doesn't look like this when I'm done.
He: I did it the right way! The only thing I didn't do was change the filter. Do you do that everyday?

At that point, my eyes got wide, I put my hand over my mouth, and I'm sure my face paled. This was my fault. Out of sheer laziness (time honored tradition of mine, well documented in this blog), I never replace the filter in the coffee maker until the next morning when I'm making the next pot. But, really, I think of "replace dirty wet paper filter full of yesterday's coffee grounds" as an instruction the same as "close fridge door when finished putting milk in". A necessary, but completely obvious, step. I pulled myself together.

Me: Um, yeah. I change out the filter everyday.
He: Oh, okay. I didn't know that. That explains why it looks different.
Me: Thank god I just made coffee yesterday and not three days ago.
He: I think I would have noticed mold in there.
Me: Yeah, I'm not really sure you would.

Hey, yankees? Y'all have annoying accents, too.

I spent a good chunk of my childhood in the south. As a navy brat, moving around a lot has given me an odd accent. Now, by "odd", I don't mean you hear me and think "this bitch is nuts!"... okay, you might think that, but not because of my accent. It's simply of indeterminate origins. That being said, my father retired and we moved up north and I was teased from moment one for my southern accent. So I fixed it. I scraped every bit of south out of my voice- all except "y'all". There is no good northern substitution.

The second exception to my "no twang" rule is when I get really angry. When I have lost all semblance of a temper- really, really pissed, which seems to happen less and less as I mellow with age (yes, this is me mellow)- Ah will poke mah fingah in youah chest as I screahm in youah face. (And, honestly, my accent is not nearly as genteel as I just represented.) This results in Sam grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with laughter. This leads to him grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with pain from my kicks to his ribs.

Exception number three! When I listen to a southerner, whoops! The accent pops right back out if I'm not paying enough attention. It's not heavy, but it is sometimes noticeable. This is seen as patronizing, unfortunately, when I am speaking to someone who doesn't know me. (There is the occasional customer who maybe gets a little insulted.) Two of my sisters have maintained a slight drawl, and when I talk to either of them, Sam instantly knows. "You just get off the phone with Christine? Your southern is showing."

This all leads to the reason Connor is now grounded for the rest of his existence. I was watching Ruby today. "Come on, Connor!" I whined. "If we just pick things up instead of leaving them lying around, this clean house would be easy to maintain!" Maintain, however, came out mahyntahyn. Little brat jumped on that quick.

"Mahhyyntahhyyn? Mahhhyyyntahhhhyyyn? Right, Mom, let's mahhhhyyyyntahhhhyyyyn the house."

"Run. Before I kill you. Quick like a bunny! Go hide!"

I am, in Fact, Typing This From the Roof

A few weeks ago, Sam and I noticed some damage to the ground all around the downspout of the front gutter. It goes directly into a drainage pipe that runs underground for... well, for the sake of brevity, let's just say forever and all distance. Point being, if it's clogged up under there, and the water is backing up and damaging the ground like that, our front yard is screwed. And so are we. Because we'll be digging up the entire distance from our house to the road. Or maybe we'd have to shove some kind of scope or rooter or something down there. Except that it's sealed up, downspout to drainage pipe, where they meet. So we'd have to ruin that, first. Or something. I have no idea. It just all seemed like it was going to be horrible.

But then came the good-news-bad-news situation. During the next heavy rain, we looked outside and discovered that the water wasn't backing up. It wasn't going through the downspout at all. It was pouring like mad over the edge of the gutter. So, yay! No damage to the underground drain! But, crap. It's blocked up at the roof. So we've got to go on the roof. Which we've never done. In the almost four years we've lived here. Because we have no way of getting up there.

Have I mentioned the bit where Sam's afraid of heights, and I'm terrified of falling?

We purchased an extension ladder for this express purpose, and this is where we discovered the downfall of living on a double-directionally-sloping lot. It was near impossible to get the ladder positioned with any stability to reach the proper spot of the gutter on the back side of the house (we did, though, and Sam discovered all was clear upon mounting the ladder- woohoo!), and was quite literally impossible to do so in front of the house.

Flash to the argument scene. Sam throws the ladder up, gives it a shake. I yell and show it lean precariously to one side with a single foot placed on the bottom rung. Sam shoves a rock under one leg of the ladder. I yell some more. Sam repositions repeatedly. I yell again. Sam gives it a shake, gets both feet on the bottom rung, I threaten to not hold the ladder in any way because I am not participating in this sham of safety and there's no way he's not going to fall anyway so I might as well not be under him when he does.

Anyway, we figured out that there's no way in hell to get to the bad-pain-in-the-ass-trouble-making-gonna-have-to-kick-it-repeatedly-if-only-I-can-get-to-it part of the gutter without actually climbing on the roof, so we might as well go to the flattest part of the ground and climb from there. This was okay because, in an interesting bit of team work, Sam was willing to work from the ladder but not climb on the actual roof, whereas I could not work from the ladder but could happily walk all over the roof like a mountain goat on acid.

Envisioning the absolute nastiness of a clog that a full waterfall from the gutter would entail, I demanded a glove and something pointy, which, to Sam's mortification, I promptly shoved into the waistband of my pants. I could see him imagining me gutting myself on it. Then he'd be a widower with three children. It was his turn to yell. But, really? There was going to be yucky stuff. And possibly bugs. The pointy thing was going up the ladder with me, one way or another.

I climbed the ladder, staring straight ahead. I got to the roof line, staring straight ahead. I contemplated how I was going to hoist my ass over the top of the ladder and onto the roof. It took a bit, but I managed to get on the roof. Oh! And safety stuff. I was totally safe about it all. Harnesses and ropes and... stuff... Don't yell at me, Mom and Dad.

I climbed over the peak of the roof, down the other side, got close to the edge, peered into the gutter. Nothing. Not a single leaf. The entire length was spotless. Huh. I moved right to the corner of the roof. The hell? There, settled right into the mouth of the downspout, perfectly wedged in, was a tennis ball. ("Oh," said Connor, later. "I wondered why that never came back down.") It was damn good on my part that I didn't leave my pointy thing behind because I needed it to lever the ball out. Then, because I'm me, I threw the ball at Sam.

After one or two more bits of maintenance things on the roof, I sat down, top of the ladder before me. Crap. After the trouble getting from ladder to roof, I had no idea how I was going to get roof to ladder.

"Coming?" Sam asked.

"Don't rush me!"

You Can Kiss My Ass, PETA.

As my sister's facebook status says, it just wouldn't be a trip to our parents' house without a bat "situation". Now, I am great in all sorts of crises. Except bats. No bats. No effing bats. So I scream like a twelve year old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert, demanding to be let out of whatever godforsaken room the nasty plague carrying rat with wings- and fangs- has ventured into. And by "demanding" I mean knocking over my poor mother and trampling her as I flee- every bitch for herself. And by "ventured" I mean swooped in and angled straight for me. And did I mention the screaming? I cannot even control the screaming. Hell no. Bats? Hell no.

Don't believe me? As proof I offer the following video. My sister is the one behind the camera. The red fringe is the blanket she kept resolutely over her head for several minutes after the bat had finally departed. My father is the brave one in boxers who I dragged out of sleep with my screeched, "If I have to suffer through this, he does, too!" I? Am the one you can barely hear yelling from behind the closed door of another room. Please excuse the language (and screaming)- but there was an effing bat in the house.

The elephant in the room is that the crap-gangville-strip is the famous Route 66. They should be embarrassed.

One evening of our trip, we go to a fantastic mexican restaurant. They make a margarita to end all margaritas. Normally I'm a frozen margarita girl because it needs to be frozen to cover up the nasty syrupy mess that most places serve. This one is excellent on the rocks, no salt necessary.

At one point, a woman comes over and says "Quieres mas? You have limonda o agua?" Now, as I have neither lemonade nor water, I pay no attention. (Or maybe it's because I'm nose-deep in my big-ass margarita glass.) Until I notice there's been no response.

"Uh, Alex," I say. "Do you want more lemonade?" "Oh. Sure." He passes his glass over, and I look curiously at Sam. "Why are we not responding to the waitress?" "Well I know I didn't get what she was asking." Huh. Over the years, I've tried to maintain some semblance of the remedial Spanish I took in high school. Paid off, I guess, as I barely notice the Spanish-English merging that she uses as she comes and goes from our table. I'm sure she's dumbing it down (Enlish-ing it up?) some, but I'm still understanding her perfectly. I'm proud of (read: full of) myself for my bad-ass bilingual-ness. Even from the bottom of my second delicious big-ass margarita.

And then we end up at Wendy's a few nights later. "Welcome-to-Wendy's-I'll-take-your-order-whenever-you're-ready-unless-of-course-you're-a-dumbass-gringo-in-which-case-you're-not-understanding-a-word-of-this-and-I-will-treat-you-like-crap," comes through the speaker. In Spanish. I assume. Because I? Don't speak a single word of Spanish. Apparently.

"Uhm... hi?... Can I... get two orders of nuggets?... And..." "Anything else?" she says. I'm sorry? Since when does "and" mean "I'm not in the middle of a sentence"? I know I'm slow here, but I'm thinking of how effed-up "nuggets de pollo" would sound. Eventually I finish and she gives us our total- I think?- and, we assume, asks us to pull up. Except I can't understand a word she says in English, either. I'm so flustered that I screw up the order and have to ask her to add on some junior bacon cheeseburgers at the window.

Now this is a personal insult. Right? It must be because the holy-bitch grows fangs. Sam hands over what I believe is way too much money, but it must not have been because we only get a dollar and change back. Huh. But then frostys come through the window (wee!), and then she yells at us. Something about nuggets de pollo? She shuts the window and Sam stares at me. "Pull up?" I say. It's really an odd sensation, the combination of fear, confusion, and growing pissed-off-ness. The woman is being heinous, but she's holding my nuggets de pollo hostage, y'all.

Eventually she comes out and- I am not kidding- throws the bags of food through the car window before dashing back into the restaurant. Thank god we got our frostys before we pulled up. And pissed-off wins the emotion battle that has been roiling within me. Heinous-holy-bitch is lucky because Sam is the one in the driver's seat and pulls away before I can go jump the woman.

It's not until we're almost back to the hotel eight miles on the other side of the crap-gangville-strip that we had to traverse (at ten-thirty at night) to get there (because of the lying-liar signs at the exit that said Wendy's was right here) that I found the receipt stapled to the bag. She had short-changed us by ten bucks. If I didn't live two thousand miles away? She and I would have words. Of course, we wouldn't be able to understand each other...

And It's So Late Because Iowa Lies About Their Free Wi-Fi at Rest Stops

We're currently on the road, traveling across the country. As I'm writing this- writing, mind you, not uploading- we are in Iowa. Which, by the way, the conversation I just had with Sam went: "The hell, where are we? Illinois?" "Iowa! What the hell? Oh no, are you writing a blog entry?"

An hour ago, I was going to say that the most exciting thing that had happened so far in this trip was getting a suite at the motel, enabling us to actually shut a door between us and the kids. Now? Emily has conveniently topped that excitement with one of her own making.

We just stopped at the "Mississippi Valley Welcome Center". It had a view- ish- of Ol' Miss, a little shop full of that random crap you see in touristy places, a playground (thank you hay-zeus), and plenty of picnic tables.

We had our lunch and the kids went exploring down a path in the woods. Grampa carefully put the fear of poison ivy into their heads, and I followed up with a "Stay ON the path!", which was well bordered with (their) knee high undergrowth. It wasn't long before Emily was screaming. Now, I don't mean that arguing-screaming or attention-screaming. Fear-and-pain-screaming.

We tore down the path to find that they had strayed away from the path onto a fallen tree. Okay, but when I say fallen tree, I mean the top was touching the ground and the other end was still connected to the stump four feet off the ground, which is precisely where Emily had fallen off of it. And. Ready? Into three foot high nettles. That surrounded the entire tree. For yards and yards in every direction.

Luckily, Grampa was not dressed like me in a short dress and flip flops and could wade in and retrieve the now screaming-crying-snotting poor little girl. Turns out she is as allergic to nettles as I am. Blistery looking hives were appearing all over her.

I ran ahead to the parking lot and grabbed my first-aid kit, as did Grandma.

Grampa and I slathered her with every non-sting non-itch wash, cream, and roll-on that we could find. As prepared as I thought my first-aid kit was (it sure cost a helluva lot to build), I didn't have a single antihistamine, child or adult, but Grandma and Grampa went and bought some.

An hour later, she is nearly hive free. Emily asked why she had gotten covered on both arms and both legs but none had gotten on her face. She was as surprised as the rest of us. The girl has had two emergency room visits for facial injuries, not to mention she had killed a baby tooth and permanently marred an adult tooth years before it ever erupted. "Because, for once," I said to her, patting her back, "you actually protected your face."

Taking My Home to Work

I was at work the other night and called Sam to see how the evening was going. Homework was done, yay. The kids had eaten, a plus. And then...

Sam: The neighbor's dog caught and killed a groundhog.
Me: Oh, no.
Sam: Yeah. It was a baby.
Me: Ick. What did she do with it?
Sam: Well, she was going through our property on her way home, I guess. But then the kids ran out to see and scared her and she dropped it on our driveway.
Me: Vomit. So? What did you do? It better not still be there.
Sam: No. I threw it at the dog.
Me: The hell?
Sam: Well, I wanted her to take it with her.
Me: You just winged it at her? And how did that work for you?
Sam: It's at least in their woods now, instead of our driveway.

Sometimes the "don't call home on your break" option is the best option.