Man v Coffee Table

We have a coffee table in the playroom. It is an excellent piece for a playroom: It is big, has rounded edges, is solid oak and virtually indestructible. Children can color on it, bang toys on it, use it for a stage, whatever, and not harm this thing.

Because it is massive, and heavy, and solid.

So. Friday night, Captain Adventure began making choking noises. Not the desperate can’t-get-air kind, but rather the retching I’m-about-to-hurl-noodles-all-over-this-table kind. He’s done that to us a few times lately, because he has taken to shoveling food into his mouth with both hands and attempting to swallow it whole so that he can get EVEN MORE FOOD in there without the waste of time we adults call ‘chewing’. And also, he tries to talk while he’s eating, which does not help the choking thing even a little bit.

My husband leapt up from the sofa to deal with this and, with a brilliant lack of spatial awareness, kicked the coffee table with his bare foot. Like it was a football and he was going for a field goal…from within his own end zone.

He promptly collapsed in a yowling heap on the sofa, leaving me to deal with the about-to-hurl toddler.

So I went over and dealt with Captain Adventure while my husband continued to yowl. And now, I get to add ‘spousal’ to my long list of guilt-feelings, because you know what I was thinking (very crossly, I may add)?

Oh, suck it up you big weenie! You stubbed your toe, boo hoo, big deal, GET OVER IT!!

He asked for ice water to soak it in and I brought it. I looked at the toe and thought it looked like a pretty good hard stubbing, but hardly worthy of all the drama. Still, it was swelling up pretty good, so I decided I’d just keep my ‘suck it up’ comments to myself because after all – if I had hit my toe hard enough to make it swell even a little bit, I’d retire sniveling to my rocking chair demanding ice cream and Godiva, so a little shutting up would probably be the best move for me. I nodded and cooed sympathetically when he said he thought it might even be broken, then agreed with him again later when he said naaaaaaw, probably just a sprain but hot holy heck, it was a dandy of a sprain!

Meanwhile, I’m rolling my eyes inside my head and wondering if the stress has finally gotten to the man BECAUSE I MEAN REALLY.

Now, we had Plans for this weekend. My parents were watching the kids overnight {angels singing, light streaming, confetti, balloons, unicorns prancing in flowery meadows}, so we had a hotel room RIGHT DOWNTOWN in San Francisco (we could literally wave at our financial district office from the {ahem} Executive Lounge), and we were going to do some things we never, ever do on account of because whenever we are downtown, we are working – so we tend to go to work, go from meeting room to meeting room and then…come home. Even if we do go out for lunch, it inevitably involves other people who always want to go to one of the same five places, so that we can discuss yet more business that we didn’t cover in the SIXTEEN HOURS OF MEETINGS WE JUST HAD. (But I’m not bitter.)

So we don’t wander around the Wharf area or go shopping or any of that. And certainly do not hang out watching the nekkid guy do yoga (yes, really – nekkid man, doing yoga [poorly], right in front of God and Everybody, with his shortcomings exposed to the whole world, poor lad) (and no, alas, it was definitely NOT entertaining) (although the nice lady from somewhere in the Midwest about turned me into a giggling puddle with her commentary, and when her daughter turned around with a red face and gasped, “MOM, REALLY!”, I just about lost it to the point of having to be carried back to Union Square on a stretcher) .

So Saturday, we got in the car and went first out to lunch, and then to the BART station, and then we walked three blocks up and three blocks over to our hotel, stood around, got our room key, went up, put away our clothes, and he took off his shoe, laughed, and said, “Honey, come look at this thing!”

Rolling my eyes and sighing like a teenager being asked how her day was, I slouched over and obediently peered at the Offending Digit.

People, his pinkie toe was two, maybe three times its normal size, a purple I haven’t seen even in the 128-count box of crayons, with two pronounced white dots in the middle of it and purple streaks running up the side of his foot and along the pad toward his big toe.

I promptly freaked out. I could think of nothing else for the whole weekend. I was FIXATED on that toe, which was OBVIOUSLY BROKEN.

No, he said.

It’s a sprain, he said.

It’s not bothering me that much, he said.

WE ARE NOT CUTTING ANYTHING SHORT AND I WANT TO TAKE A CABLE CAR TO FISHERMAN’S WHARF ON SUNDAY, he said. (Tourists, oy!)

So we didn’t abort the mission. We did most of what-all we had planned to do downtown and then we came home.

The whole time, all I can think about is his gruesomely purple toe. And I keep telling myself that he’s probably right. It’s probably a sprain. After all, if you were going to pick which one of us was less likely to be Stupid about these things, you’d better go with the husband. I will go for weeks and months without treatment on the theory that it will probably heal itself ANY TIME NOW, ergo going to the doctor where they might give me a shot or stick a hand where I want no hand to be stuck for treatment is probably just a waste of time and money.

I trusted him to insist on going to the doctor if he thinks he needs to go.

On the other hand…purple toe.

Really, really, really purple.

Yesterday, we went at last to the doctor. The whole time, Himself is protesting: It isn’t broken, it’s just a sprain, they’re not going to do anything about it, just tape it and that’s it, blah blah blah.

The doctor took an x-ray and announced hey! That sucker’s BROKEN!!

And then she launched into her spiel: Here’s your Uber Ibuprofen, here’s your Vicodin, put it up, don’t walk on it (heh heh, yeah, funny story there…cable car...broken cable on Powell Street line, SEVEN BLOCK HIKE DOWNHILL TO THE BART STATION!!!!), ice-ice-ice come back in two weeks so we can make sure it is healing and not “slipping”, if it is not healing and/or slipping we will refer you to a surgeon (!) who can put some pins in it (!!).

Two weeks on the couch for my Mister, with his toe taped and a big old cast-shoe thing protecting him from further trauma.

I leave you with one of the many things I learned this weekend: It is nearly impossible to hear a nurse say, with great seriousness, “toe trauma”, without giggling.

Even if it is your husband’s toe she is talking about.

Barbequed WHAT?!

So a dear friend had a birthday party this weekend at a sushi place in San Francisco. I’d never eaten sushi before, mostly because I have an aversion to fish that borders on the pathological.

However, for this particular friend, I would do damn near anything. She is one of the strongest, most beautiful women I know. She inspires me. She is one of honestly only a very few people I will not ever allow to disappear from my life, or I from hers.

Extra-special.

Particularly dear.

So if she wants to have sushi for her birthday, by Our Lady of Permanent Press, we will have sushi, AND LIKE IT!!!

Items to consider:

1. I don’t like fish
2. I’ve never had sushi before
3. I don’t like fish
4. My seatmates were Sushi Experts™, who have forgotten more than I will ever know about sushi – which might be a good thing unless they are also ‘fish’ people who cannot understand the concept of someone, ANYONE, not liking fish
5. I. Don’t. Like. Fish.
6. Spitting food across the room while shrieking, “Hot holy damn what the @*^&@ WAS that?!?!” would be extremely socially unacceptable at this particular time
7. If I had to pick an animal other than fish that I really don't want to eat, I'd have to say snake would be my bottom-of-the-line don't-wanna-eat-it. And an eel is what, exactly? A snake, AND a fish. That's what it is, people. That is what it is...

And with that, I give you, Me. Eating not only sushi, but barbequed snake-fish-eel sushi (and yes, I knew that before I popped it in my mouth – this is also me, being what passes for brave in my pathetic little world):

Actually…it wasn’t that bad. Even if the surroundings hadn’t been what they were, I wouldn’t have spit it out. The expression on my face isn't so much disgust as 'holy carp, this is a big old wad of chewiness and I am having trouble chewing without looking like a cow dealing with her cud, so I'm going to throw my hand up in front of my face and hope nobody notices that I just totally took in about six mouthfuls of food I now don't have the chompers to deal with efficiently.'

It was a touch advanced for a rookie fish eater, but not only did I survive the eel (somehow), but I also ate some baked trout with no harm done, and grilled sole. And tuna (cooked). But when my seatmate began enthusiastically telling me how much I would love raw tuna, I put my spiky-heel clad foot down and said, “Thank you, but I think I will just have some more sake. Allow me to refill your glass! Kampai!!!”

I also had never had sake. It’s not a bit bad. Also, you can drink those little glasses down really, really fast. And also? Enough of those little glasses can make you brave enough to say, “What the heck! I’ll give it a go!”, and fling eel into your mouth.

Well, actually…you know what does that? Good friends. Those one in a million kinds, who can broaden your world in a hundred thousand ways, large and small.

You’re one of those, sis. Thanks for the eel. It was very broadening.

**smooch**, Happy Birthday, and Kampai!!

Almost Instant Karma

A couple days ago, Sugar Mommy wrote about An Incident in which one of her children tried to bring about his early demise by tearing up Styrofoam in his room, creating a blizzard right in the comfort of his own bedroom, taking all the clothes out of a drawer and peeing on them. On purpose.

I laughed.

I laughed so hard I almost hurt myself.

Mostly I laughed because, well, Sugar Mommy can be so darned funny. And because I’ve been there before. And in my mean little heart, because it wasn’t happening to me, this time.

OK. So.

I then promptly had the following go down, in rapid fire:

1. Half of vacation I was going to be able to take preempted by Danger Mouse peeing on herself at school
2. Damp vomit chunks in the Dust Buster (WHO, I ask you, WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MINDS, uses a Dust Buster on WET VOMIT?!?!) (I will speak no further of this – it will require years of therapy before I can say any more.)
3. “Mommy, I don’t have any clean pajamas. {pause} or underwear {pause} or socks {pause} or…” “OK! OK, I GET THE POINT!!”
4. And then…Captain Adventure found a box that had contained these little figurines. The figurines were packed in…uh huh…Styrofoam. Particularly brittle Styrofoam, the kind that upon being picked at shatters in pieces so small and plentiful that it really does resemble snow.

It was a veritable Winter Wonderland in the playroom. Not only did Captain Adventure pull at the stuff, but Danger Mouse and Boo Bug cheerfully joined in. And when I descended upon them in wrath and fury demanding to know W.T.Holy.Ever.Loving.HELL they thought they were doing?

“But mommy, Captain Adventure started it!”

Let’s review.

Captain Adventure: 26 months
Boo Bug: Five years
Danger Mouse: Six and a half

Captain Adventure I expect to do things like pry Styrofoam out of a box, break it into tiny pieces, eat some and spread the rest throughout the house.

BUT HIS BIG SISTERS I EXPECT TO KNOW BETTER.

Guess what else I learned? Styrofoam that has been broken into bits about the size of rice grains do not sweep up off Pergo.

In point of fact, they run away from the broom, at incredible speed, and hide under the furniture.

When you walk away, they are sucked back out and lie in the middle of the floor smirking at you.

I had to get out the Dust Buster (which was how I discovered the damp vomit chunks therein), and then I had to get the vacuum cleaner (because the Dust Buster is currently in the trash can, and I’m not 100% sure I will calm down enough to take it out and clean it), and as I was sucking the Styrofoam off the floor I realized that the floor is dirty-dirty-dirty.

So then I discovered that I’m almost out of Scooba cleaner, and there is only one (1) place in town that carries it.

They also carry Dust Busters. Including the more expensive European versions and cool, funky ones that would express my quirky personality brilliantly.

…you see the problem here?...

This, people, is karma in action. Go ahead. Laugh at my hardships. Because I tell you what, I’m downright eager to pass this particular batch of karmic justice to someone else right now…

Of GRRRR! Frames and Easy Savers

I had a good laugh today. I spent a chunk of time cleaning out the linen cupboard, which I realize sounds about as jolly a time as getting your teeth filed. You’ll just have to trust me when I say it was a very pleasant afternoon.

I found a tiny little picture frame wedged waaaaaaaaaay in the back, under The Most Hideous Set of Table Linens, Ever©. They were a gift from a friend of a friend. I think he originally got them by losing a bet or something. Ugly is too short a word, people. They look like someone had been eating nachos and drinking something purple and then threw up on the table cloth.

Seriously. Hideous. And also? Going to charity. I’m sure somebody will think they are the cat’s whiskers.

But I digress.

So here’s this little picture frame, and I was looking at it and thinking, Now, why do I have this feeling like I wasn’t ever going to throw this away…?

It unremarkable, and empty. It’s slightly bigger than a wallet-sized picture, really kind of an oddball shape. Slightly beat up, and the hinge is broken on it, like I changed the picture that was in it a lot…

NO WAIT! Not a picture!!

A credit card!!!!!

It was at this point that I sat back and laughed until I about gave myself a case of hiccups.

It’s my GRRRR! frame, people!

Back when we were floundering in debt, I kept this little frame on my desk. In it, I would keep the credit card that was my current Enemy #1 – the one with the highest interest rate (or the one whose customer (dis)service had pissed me off more, in the event of a tie).

Dog is my witness, I used to actually snarl at this picture frame. Every morning! I would sit down at my desk, glare at that card and go, “GRRRRRRRR!”

I would tell the card how it was going down. I would tell the card to watch out, because hey! I was not going to be buying any new outfits today! Nossir! And see this? THIS, my friend, is a bagged lunch. HA! That’s eight more bucks coming off your balance.

And then I’d make scissor gestures at it: Snip, snip, pal – yer dead!!

I would scrimp and save and glare at the frame every time I made a frugal choice (Yeah, that’s right – that’s going to your balance! Snippity-snip-snip-SNIP!!). It was a focus point for the magic we were making, with our determination and anger and shame and hope. Every day, looking at that credit card, I would think about what we were trying to do.

It made me stop and think - which is not merely half the battle, but the winning of the whole stinkin’ war.

Cards swapped in and out of that frame a lot in the early days. One card would be hitting me for 30+% and be in the frame…then after a month or three of the ‘grrrrr’ treatment, maybe their customer (dis)service would be more interested in talking about a rate reduction, and the card would get a temporary reprieve while another card took its place.

That first year, I’d say cards were flying in and out of the frame about monthly.

Then there weren’t that many cards left, and the cards there were didn’t change interest rates on me as much. The card that went in stayed in, until it was paid off. At which point...yes. It went to the scissors, without so much as a blindfold.

It was ceremoniously cut into shards and dropped into a little brandy snifter engraved with the word ‘FREEDOM’. I've still got the snifter, with the card-shards. (Little dusty, actually.)

I’d forgotten about the GRRR! frame, though.

We humans are funny animals. We can be so intelligent, able to think about all manner of High and Wondrous Deeds, and yet still find ourselves doing exactly what we know we shouldn’t…because what we want (or the consequence of what we’re doing) isn’t something we can see, right here this second.

We eat ourselves into diabetic comas, smoke our lungs to cinders, drink ourselves into familial destruction, ruin our physical, emotional and fiscal health because damn it – it feels so good, in the Right Now.

We can ‘know’ that we’re putting our feet on the road to ruin, without being able to really understand what we’re doing. Five, ten, twenty years out? Pshaw! Might as well not exist.

It’s only when it is right in our faces that we seem to ‘get it’. I never paid much attention to how much fat was in the food I ate, until too much of it laid me out on my bathroom floor groaning in pain within hours. And I’m sure that if my gallbladder hadn’t given up on me, in twenty-thirty years, I’d be having to stick myself with a needle to inject my insulin two or three times a day.

I hate needles. I hate them so much. I would do all kinds of crazy things to avoid a needle. But simply not eating a Death by Fat and Sodium mashed potato bowl from KFC?

C’mon. Surely this one little bowl isn’t going to hurt me. And besides, I’m going to have a salad at some point in my lifetime (probably), so it’ll balance out…

My GRRR! frame was just what I needed, at the time. A physical manifestation of a rather esoteric need: the need to be free. The need to not be bleeding hundreds and thousands of dollars a year away in interest payments, late fees and ‘just because we can’ charges.

We’re intelligent animals, we humans. But we still need our focal points to redirect our attention away from the fleeting (and possibly harmful) pleasures of the moment and back to those things that build our futures, shaped by our dreams into beautiful realities.

Today, I have a new focal point, in roughly the same place where the GRRR! frame used to sit – right where my eyes tend to settle when I pause for thought. It’s a Buddy L Easy Saver bank. One of these:



It doesn’t have the same passion I had with the GRRR! frame. When I’m in a philosophical frame of mind, it reminds me to approach my savings playfully, to remember to have a little fun with it, to enjoy watching the dials whir and to look forward to the day when I finally (finally!) get to $20 and the door unlocks. It embodies the fun of anticipation, the slow but steady nature of growth.

And also? It ends up being coffee. Because when that door unlocks at the $20 mark, I scoop those coins out of there and lug it down to the supermarket, dump it into the Coinstar machine and reload my Starbucks card.

And then I get a low fat mocha and fat free scone and consider myself among the blessed.

Yea, verily.

And not a GRRR! in sight…

(If you have a Coinstar machine near you, check out this link. It shows you all the cards that are available, and if you get or reload one of these, you don’t pay the counting fee. They offer Old Navy, Borders, Linens n Things and iTunes, among others. If you’re a coin-hoarder who occasionally purges but pays a fee for doing so, this is a good deal.)

Choices and Options

Six weeks ago, I made arrangements to take today and tomorrow off. As in, not working. Not as a database analyst, nor as CEO/CFO/COO of the Den. The idea was, for two days I was going to not have anybody bugging me for anything.

Naturally…I had to return a phone call this morning. And then there was this other thing, and then Eldest erupted with a sudden fever and had to stay home (and will likely be home again tomorrow while daddy is at the office, so much for a spa visit) AND THEN Danger Mouse managed to have a clothes-ruining accident at school such that she had to be picked up right when I was trying to get out of town (or at least to a nice, safe cofee shop) after having spent over an hour getting the oil changed in the car.

Sounding good so far?!

Sometimes I really do wonder what would happen if I got hit by a train. Apart from the whole ‘excruciating pain and probably death’ part, I mean. That part would suck. And I am a major wuss, so I don’t really do the ‘pain’ part. And the death part would suck, too, because shoot – I’d miss the next really cool part.

Which is why even though I often get results from online quizzes that say, “Dear God, Woman! RUN to your doctor and make an appointment YOU ARE SO FAR INTO DEPRESSION SUNK THAT THERE IS LITTLE HOPE FOR YOU WITHOUT THERAPY AND PROBABLY LOTS OF MEDICATION!”, I cannot accept the diagnosis. Because while I may be down quite frequently, and feeling abused, and otherwise finding myself in a funk, I am always telling myself to buck up – there’s still plenty of Good Stuff ahead, once I get through this little black cloudy bit.

And then? I’M RIGHT! There’s laughter! And big cards my children drew that say things like “I love you mommy” with big hearts and pictures of us dancing in fields of flowers! And my husband praises and thanks me for all the stuff I do around here! And we go to the zoo or something and I get cotton candy!!

AND LIFE IS SO GOOD I COULD JUST ABOUT CRY!!!!

Then I get down on my knees and say a few words to $DEITY about how grateful I am that I do not suffer real depression, the kind where you can’t keep your head up and wait for better times you know are coming, because to suffer that endless cloud enveloping your whole body everywhere you go, all the time, would be hell.on.earth.

But I digress.

Anyway, if I did manage to fall under the wheels of the 5:05 commuter express, I envision my family just sort of sitting in a smelly pile of dirty dishes and laundry, slowly starving to death because none of them can figure out the mystery that is…{spooky music} the supermarket {/spooky music}.

So here I am, not doing what I had hoped to be doing, which was giving things a good, hard think. I get about this far, “I wonder if I could…” and then?

Phone ringing. Husband blabbing. Child crying. What about lunch? Did I have any ideas about dinner? Hey, wasn’t I supposed to do this or that or the other? Had I made arrangements for this other thing?!

@*^&@!!!!!!!

The Universe is thwarting me. That’s right! The whole Universe, the whole Big Thing, is going out of its way to thwart me, personally.

Typical.

*sniff, sniff*

I’m so abused.

But seriously? In a way, this is really driving home a point: My Den, my family, my whole pathetic life, has moved beyond Chaos into Nihilism.

Nobody, not a single Denizen, is happy right now. Everybody is angry, sick, miserable, not sleeping well, and otherwise walking around with raw nerves poking out every which way. And it has been this way not for days or weeks, but for months.

I have the best possible job situation for a Mother of Chaos with four little ones underfoot and a Den to manage, and yet it isn’t working out. We’re physically exhausted, emotionally wrung out, and financially not doing nearly as well as you’d think. Between childcare and taxes, I’m really not taking home all that much – but putting an awful lot of huff and bother and stress into the mix to get it.

Now, I told you that so I could tell you this: This right here is the whole reason why approaching your life in a ‘sustainable’ manner is so vital.

People, I have options. We can still get by on my husband’s income alone.

We.
Have.
Options.

It makes me feel sick inside whenever I hear someone whose job is sucking their soul right out their eyeballs say they can’t quit because of {dramatic music} the bills {/dramatic music}.

They can’t quit because…

…even a lapse of a few days in pay would be disastrous…

…they make more money at this job than they could elsewhere, and they need every dime. They can’t sacrifice $5,000 a year because it is literally the difference between staying on top and drowning beneath their minimum payments…

…it isn’t like there’s anything better out there, after all, when you’re a Pipe Cleaner Fluffer, it isn’t like you can go up the street to a competitors and have better working conditions…

I’m not talking about people who have suffered a run of really bad luck here, the people who are recovering from medical issues and the bills that can bring, or whose houses were swept away by flood or fire, or like that. Nor am I talking about people who are just getting their feet wet in the pond of Life.

I’m talking about…well, folks like me. Folks who view a credit card line increase as a kind of pay raise, who buy cars they can’t afford on the theory that they only live once, who take splendid vacations once, twice, twelve times a year either on the cards or by using their house as an ATM.

And then…find themselves trapped in jobs they loathe or situations they’d love to leave, because they can barely keep their heads above water as it is and the slightest breath of the Winds of Change will drown them faster than you can say Default APR.

I wish I had a magic wand that could *poof* away everybody’s issues and give everybody what I have now – but I have to say, it wouldn’t work. I had not one but two *poofs* granted to me before I had to take care of it the old fashioned way, and I learned precisely nada. All I did was dig myself in deeper.

I guess the process is part of the cure. Well. And for me, I got a major kick in the pants when the Denizens started coming along. The realization that the impact of my actions were no longer limited to me, but that my children were likewise being set up for success or failure based on what I did today…whoa.

Paradigm shift, y’all.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I really don’t. I’m sitting on that fence like it was a tame pony, one leg on either side and my butt firmly planted in the middle. On the one hand, I hate to give up the income, the retirement savings, the social security building. On the other hand…I don’t like what my Den is becoming.

Chaos is OK. Chaos is my personal normal. But nihilism is ugly, scary, and other negative things. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.

And I suspect I prefer Chaos and a painfully tight budget to Nihilism and…well…a painfully tight budget…

…and then it was Monday

I finished the baby blanket last night. And one and a half infant socks, which really are like instant gratification. I also finished two hats and ran in the ends on the preemie sweater:



This weekend went by altogether too fast. Like, {blink!} HEY! Whaddya mean it’s over?!?!

And then? It was Monday. I had to get back to Real Life again. So I did, and then things happened, and suddenly I’m looking at the clock saying, “Dang, it’s quitting time!”

Suddenly, it’s almost Tuesday. And there’s an all day offsite meeting tomorrow.

All.
Day.

I’m trying to convince myself that I can knit through the meeting without being noticed. This is rather unlikely due to the fact that a) we’re a tiny company of about twenty souls, so it’s kind of hard to find a quiet nook in the back of the room and vanish and b) we’re a tight-knit (ha!) group with a broad interest base and, erm, inquisitive natures, ergo somebody sitting there knitting might as well be reprogramming an Oracle box using their Treo – it will be noticed and nobody is shy about shouting, “Hey! Something interesting!! Whatcha doing, huh?! Explain! In detail! With charts and graphs!!”

So, I’m also coming up with arguments in case anybody wants to get up in my peanut butter about the fact that I am knitting while they’re blathering on about our Noble and Lofty Company Goals. They go something like this:

First line of defense: It’s a matter of fact:

I can knit and listen more easily than I can sit and listen. This is a documented fact – if I’m just sitting there and you’re talking, I assure you that even if I’m nodding and going ‘uh-huh, uh-huh’, I’m not listening. I’m thinking about what I could be doing with my time while you’re talking, but just sitting there, while you talk? Wastes. Productivity.

Second line of defense: Do you really want to snatch warmth away from babies?

I am making things like booties, sweaters, hats and blankies for Helpless Tiny Hospitalized Children Who Need Such Things Desperately. What kind of heartless monster are you, anyway, to ask me to sit there with my hands uselessly fidgeting in my lap, when I could be making warm, snuggly things for disadvantaged babies?! SHAME ON YOU!!! (I am also working on my ‘withering gaze’ and ‘mournful eyes’, but it isn’t going well – I keep looking like I’ve got a bad case of indigestion.)

Third line of defense: Fear my rapier wit – FEAR IT, I SAY!

If you take away my knitting I may feel impelled to make wiseass remarks all through your presentation. I will have nowhere else to channel my energies. And I will be angry, so my remarks may be particularly cutting. I will point out the fact that your socks do not go with your pants; if anybody loved you at all, maybe they’d knit you some that did OH WAIT! You’re against that whole knitting-thing…

(I’ll be putting my resume up on DICE soon…)

And that will be Tuesday, and then it will be Wednesday.

But wait! In a stroke of sheer oddness, I am taking Wednesday and Thursday off this week. I’m not going anywhere or doing anything, either. I’m just taking two days of vacation in the middle of the week. Because I can, because I have over three weeks of accrued vacation, people.

That’s right. I’m taking two days off because I can. And also I need to take some days off, or I might just jump off a bridge. Not on purpose, mind you. It’ll be a matter of extreme inattention to detail. “…mutter, mutter, left at the next corner…SPLASH!”

…who the hell put that big orange bridge there?!?!

I’ve toyed with Doing Something, but honestly…I don’t wanna. I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything, really. I want to have absolute freedom on my days off. I want to be able to stay home watching bad television, or suddenly jump into the car and go on a safari through the wilderness of Central California.

I refuse to make actual plans. My plan is to not have a plan. Since the rest of my life tends to be highly scheduled and goal-oriented, I’m looking forward to two days of skulking around pretending I’m not here. What? Dinner? I dunno, honey, I’m on vacation. {Evil laughter}

And then it will be Friday.

Which will be an utterly useless day and honestly, I do not know why I didn’t take it off, too. I mean, there is this One Thing that I really need to do because I’m the only person who has the knowledge-expertise to do it without bollixing it up beyond all reason. I can either spend a few hours doing it myself, or spend a few days undoing the mayhem caused by someone else trying to do it.

And then another weekend will whip past me so fast it takes another inch off my hair and then?

It will be Monday again.

ROFLMAO du jour

Headline as it displayed in my email inbox:

The Evening Wrap: Fresh Paint, Shaky Foundations; Stocks Keep Slipping; Bush Ass...

{blink, blink}

{…reread headline…}

{fall out of chair laughing}

It’s always the unintentional ones that are the funniest…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

*snork!* Wha? Uh, I think we should definitely work on the inverted yield curve theory on a six week sliding…

Oh. Heh heh. It’s you. Hi. I thought it was…someone else…like, say, my boss, who is probably wondering if I still work for the company or have gone on permanent sick leave.

People, this has been the worst run of ill-health to date in the Den. My husband and I went over recent events in exhaustive detail and have concluded that in eight years of parenting, the last month has been the hardest on the sickness front. It wasn’t so much the illnesses themselves as the fact that everybody got it, but not all at once. Each person had two to four days of being sick…overlapping by one day at the most. And it recurred!

We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three weeks.

But we are slowly returning to what passes for normal around here. I took Captain Adventure to daycare yesterday morning, and lived in trembling fear of my telephone. It jangled me out of my reverie five times yesterday morning, and each time I stared at it with intense hatred.

So help me Dog, if this is daycare calling to say he had a bout of Explosive Diarrhea or something…!

But it wasn’t. My mother and my mother in law, both checking on Captain Adventure, someone looking for Best Buy, Gottschalks with exciting information about my account (memo to me, close the @*^&@ing Gottschalks account) and a fellow mother who is selling Avon (remind me that I would like to express my appreciation to a Certain Teacher for giving out our home phone numbers to all the parents in the class).

You know what? I just this minute realized I have something new to be grateful for.

In the last few weeks, I have been approached by numerous women selling Mary Kay, Avon, Amway, laundry and body soaps, aromatherapy, Pampered Chef and yes, the old standby, Tupperware.

But I have not once been approached by someone clutching a briefcase full of yarn. “Do you want to have a Wool Party? It’d be FUN! Plus you can get a free skein of Koigu if you get fifteen guests…”

People, there would be sixty people handcuffed to my furniture that very night. And also, every credit card I have would be maxed out plus also my Knit From Your Stash thing?

Right out the window.

So yes. I have much to be grateful for. Koigu does not have an ‘independent consultant’ trade; nor does KnitPicks, or Halcyon Yarns, or Webs.

This is a happy thing.

Unlike this:



Yeah, remember that? It’s Eldest’s sweater. In almost a month I have…finished the second sleeve. And, uh, that’s about it. At this rate, it will be June before the thing is finished – just in time for her to never actually wear it, because by the time it is cold enough for the child to want a wool sweater on, she will be two sizes bigger.

Children and the growing thing, what are you gonna do?

The holdup is actually my sewing machine, which I need to use for the steeks on the sides (these being the Norwegian style steeks, with no extra stitches on either side of the cut, a machine stitch is kind of necessary to keep the yarn from unraveling when you {gulp} cut it). I have nowhere to put it right now (let alone use it), due to a certain Clutter Issue that has taken over all my craft-worthy surfaces. I’ve been chipping away at it, but in terms of actual headway…well…eh, not so much. Not to mention that the instant I clear even a one foot circle of space, another twelve pounds of crap lands right smack in the middle of it.

So, while waiting for the clutter to magically vanish (ahem), I cast on this:



This is a sweet pattern, very easy, and a nice break from the wee little #1 DPNs I’d been using for all those socks. It’s in Lion Baby Soft, so it’s no, really machine wash and dry, 60% acrylic, 40% nylon. Very soft, very warm.

Tangles like the dickens, though.

I have a dream for the weekend. I see my sewing machine running the stitches down the sides of this sweater, so I can cut the steeks, sew in the sleeves, and do the neckband on this sweater. I see this baby blanket finished. And I see me digging through my stash picking out what-all is next.

OK, so, it isn’t a Nobel Prize winning kind of dream. But it’s all I got at the moment, so I’m clinging to it like glue.

May you all have a fun and germ-free weekend…

More like a crash pad…

The Daily OM today talked about having a space that is our ‘landing pad’ in their article Your Comfort Zone: Create A Soft Place To Land .

A basement or attic, spare room, or unused storage area, furnished with items that soothe you, can give you the privacy you need to unwind…Preparing these spaces can be as easy as replacing clutter with a small selection of beautiful objects that put you in a relaxed frame of mind.

Ah yes. Easy. Lovely. Nice…

Remember to consider noise and activity levels while choosing the site of your landing pad. If you know that ordinary human commotion will distract you from your purpose, look for a secluded spot.

HA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!

…snicker…

…snort…

…

**sob**

This is a five bedroom house. There are 2300 square feet in this house. Three full bathrooms. This house, people, is enormous. Trust me, I just got done cleaning it. It’s massive.

And yet.

There is not one single place in this whole house that I can go to take refuge, feel at peace and most of all get away from the @*^&@ing noise!!!!!

If there is any design flaw in this house, it is that noise carries most shockingly. It has one of those ‘light and airy, great for entertaining’ floor plans – which means that if the children are playing anywhere in the house, the sound travels beautifully along the vaulted ceilings, is amplified and channeled directly into my brain.

Also, no matter where you are in the house, the TV will sound as if it is in the same room with you – unless, of course, you are in the TV room. If you are in the TV room, dialog coming from the TV will be all but inaudible.

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve come downstairs in my PJs to snarl at my husband to TURN THAT @*^&@ING THING DOWN ALREADY at half-past way too late for a work night, well, I’d be able to buy myself a latte to make up for the sleep deprivation caused by Super Kill’Em Cop Kung Fu Midnight Madness Crusader Zee XII – This Time, It’s Personal.

Last weekend, the Den was like a Keystone Kops Kaper. Everywhere I went, the Denizens came right along behind me leaving Denizen Destruction© in their wake.

It was pathetic, really. All I wanted was a wee little tiny bit of time to myself. Quiet time. Peace, and quiet. That’s all.

But what I got…was Denizen Destruction©.

I was about ready to commit acts that would have CPS banging on my door faster than a bill collector.

It seemed so little to ask: Half an hour, thirty paltry minutes, of silence. That didn’t involve leaving my Den. I just needed a little time in my own space, to reflect and relax and not be negotiating a peace treaty between any two entities.

Children, of course, do not understand this. They must learn about a human being’s need for the occasional block of Peace And @*^&@ing Quiet. They must be taught that if they see someone…say, their mother…turning bright purple, with her hair standing on end, smoke coming from her ears and a deep grinding noise from her teeth, this is probably a good time to back sloooooowly away from her, shutting the door silently behind you, get as far as humanly possible away and pretend you don’t exist for a period of no less than thirty minutes.

For some inexplicable reason, survival instinct does not kick in and warn children that they are about to be ended if they don't leave mumsy-wumsy alone for a few minutes. In fact, when they see their mother in this state, her stress communicates itself to them and triggers yet louder cries, demands, wails and protests. Siblings will immediately declare war on each other. Toys will be broken. As will ear drums, from the shrieking about the broken toys. Land speed records will be broken in the efforts to be the first to tattle.

Not to daddy, who is sitting on the sofa watching a (bad) kung fu movie. Oooooooh no. Gotta be mommy, who is just trying to find Five. @*^&@ing. Minutes. of. Peace. And. !!@*^&@ing!! Quiet. They will stand on the other side of a locked bathroom door screaming their case - in stereo - and ignoring the clear sounds of their mother about to come out of there like something out of Stephen King's worst nightmare to end their little lives.

I have a relatively high tolerance for noise (being slightly deaf helps) (if you’d like to enjoy this benefit, just let me know – I’ll send the Denizens to your place for a weekend and you’ll be set), and am not a bit surprised that having four small children underfoot brings with it a certain level of noise, mess, laundry and other irritations.

Remember how I said my house is massive? Well, this weekend, it was way too small.

Sometimes I would give anything to have one of those McMansions, one of the ones that seems specifically designed to put S-P-A-C-E between each and every soul who dwells therein. Sometimes, I would run up and lick the door handle, if it meant I got to keep the place.

Especially the ones that have an in-law unit that is utterly separate from the main house. Where you leave the main house, walk across a courtyard, and enter a separate little apartment with a lock on the door, a mini kitchen and full bathroom.

All the benefits of running away from home…without any travel expenses.

If we got a house that had one of those? Dog as my witness, I would pee on the floor of the in-law unit to mark it as my very own turf. I’d rush in there before anybody else had a chance and do the deed, right away. Then I would announce it.

“See that? That spot right there? It’s pee! In. The. Carpet!!” I would announce.

It would work. That space would be mine, mine forever!!

Because y’all? I am the only person in this family who doesn’t blanch and flee in the presence of peed-upon carpet…

Yet more proof that I am EEEEEEEEVIL…

If you go to CompFused and watch this video:

Icy Roads In Portland


Watch Video

You will note that they suggest it is even better if you make pinball sounds in your head while you watch. How evil is that?! This is serious! This is Not Funny! This is wanton and frightening destruction of property and there is nothing funny whatsoever about it!!

I mean, I saw some of this footage on TV the day it happened. I saw it three times in one newscast. Each time, the anchorperson was solemn. Each time, they talked about how ‘serious’ this problem was.

And, in my head, especially by the second time around?

…ping!...ping!...ping-ping!...ping!...

…
…
…

I am so going to hell…

He’s baaaaaaaaaaack!

The gremlins who had kidnapped my son apparently gave up overnight and brought him back. The changeling is gone, and Captain Adventure is back in da house.

Let me hear the Mommy say: Whew.

You see, my son is a happy little person. The changeling we had yesterday was a bawling, squalling bundle of can’t-be-made-happy neediness. There were moments when I was ready to call a priest for an exorcism. Or at least burn some of that sage incense I know I’ve got lying around here somewhere…maybe put on some woad…I don’t know. Something. I wasn’t that proud to begin with, and was becoming more and more desperate by the hour.

The sudden recovery began last night with a bag of Ritz Bits peanut butter crackers. He had eaten a few bites of bread over the weekend, but refused to even look at most solid food. Last night in a fit of sheer desperation we offered him a bag of the crackers thinking that a) he’d say ‘no way’ and b) if he did eat any, he’d probably throw them up but at least he’d have something to bring up instead of just dry heaves, which suck, but most important c) it might distract him long enough for me to have a good cry about the whole thing.

But he ate those. And then a couple peanut butter cookies. And drank some water. And then some juice. And when he saw me plating up the fish sticks, he jumped into his chair and began begging. He threw the fish sticks on the floor but cheerfully ate his applesauce.

He was still fussy, though, and fell asleep on daddy pretty quick, giving up on the whole thing in disgust.

First thing this morning, I heard…singing. Singing! From the crib!

eeeeeeeeeYES!!!!

“Are you ready to get up now?” “YEAH!” “You want to play today?” “YEAH!”

He took his medicine, drank some milk, ate two scrambled eggs and a piece of toast, chatting and laughing and occasionally leaning forward to point at his runny nose (like maybe I wouldn’t notice) (well, OK, that actually has been known to happen) and then said, “Dah-own pees!” (down please), ran over to the TV and threw his hands against it and said, “OOOpffff!” (which I think may have meant ‘on’ or ‘hey mom, how about putting on some toddler-appropriate programming, maybe some Dora or a show about shapes and colors, c’mon, hook a guy up, whaddya say?’)

We are now sharing an episode of Baby Newton (Square! See the square? BLUE! Blue. Square. YAY!!) (…can we please move on to something more intellectual, like Spongebob or maybe 2 Stupid Dogs…?), and once again, you would never know he had ever been sick.

Well. Unless you noticed the Niagara Falls impersonation his nose is attempting, or the glazed expression on my face this morning. I woke up about eleventy-million times last night because I thought I heard him vomiting.

But $DEITY be praised, I think the worst may finally be over.

Cue a sister getting sick in three…two…one…

A fish stick by any other name…

OK, so, I made fish sticks and applesauce for Denizen dinner tonight. And yes, I’m calling ketchup a ‘vegetable’ and pretending that it is a healthy choice.

Because people…if you plate it right, even fish sticks are obviously a gourmet meal:



Actually, these aren’t half bad. They’re the Trident ‘Ultimate Fish Stick’, which are less bread and more fish. They aren’t the fish sticks you remember from your school cafeteria, folks.

And yes. They do taste better when the ketchup is in a swirly pattern instead of a glorp, and the applesauce provides a sweet counter-balance to the tangy bite of the ketchup and, uh, the, erm...sea-like sweet fishy-ness of the fish sticks.

(And thus do we see why I do not have a career ahead of me in culinary review. *sob, sob* another fine career opportunity, blighted!)

The Denizens were delighted by the presentation. DING DING DING!! She shoots, she scores!! Thank you, thank you, autographs available upon request...Now if I could just get them to quit fighting about whether it's a flower, a sun, or a starfish...

The husband and I, poor unfortunates that we are, are having leftover pork roast [lean pork loin roast coated in a rub of salt, cracked pepper, and ground cumin, draped with bacon slices and slow cooked for, uh, um, a whole day, (about eight hours? ish?) in the crockpot with a scant quarter cup of water for extra moisture] , treated a-la chicken salad with some mayo and a good brown mustard and diced pickles, broiled open-faced on homemade rye bread under a healthy slice of garlic gouda - a dish the Denizens have dubbed, "EWWWWW YUCK THAT'S GROSS GAG! GAG! GAG!!!!! {fall on floor and pretend to die to death because it is Just So AWFUL!!}"

@*^&@!!!!!

Yes, that’s right. Fake swear words, right in the title bar.

I have NO shame, people. None.

This weekend, I meant to work on the paper overload, file some photographs, knit a bunch and clean the Den a bit.

Instead, I did a little knitting, less cleaning, and a lot of cuddling Captain Adventure, who added vomiting to his list of ailments this weekend.

To recap, the child has two infected ears, strep throat – now, with vomiting!!

He is miserable and clingy and I don’t blame him even one tiny little bit. His little life sucks right now.

Sometimes, I just want to go to bed and stay there until the whole thing is over.

Well. Apparently, my ten minute break from having him lying on me is now over. Right. Well, glad we had this little chat. Take care of yourselves and for Pete’s sake, if you’ve been anywhere need me, go take a bath in bleach, drink your Flu-Away and wash all your clothes in boiling water.

Gearing up to stand down

*sniff, sniff*

What’s that smell? It smells like…quitting time!

{Angels singing, confetti, Light of Hope streaming down from on high, unicorns frisking through fields of buttercups}

This has been one of the hardest weeks on record since I went back to work. I have had a ton of motivational issues, not helped one little bit by Captain Adventure being sick, and the Job Monitor {dramatic music, cape, kindly-wise look on face} thing has been really draining. People keep saying things I don’t understand about processes I know nothing about, and then when I say, “Uuuuuuuh,” they say things like, “Oh, don’t worry, you don’t need to know how it works – I’m saying telling you so you’ll know.”

OK. Thanks, thanks for that. I’ll go ahead and file that away, shall I?

This weekend’s plans changed rather dramatically thanks to Captain Adventure’s strep throat; although technically his doctor said he would no longer be contagious as of tonight, I didn’t want to go anywhere anyway prefer not to take chances with these things.

So instead of attending social events, I’m going to spend the weekend alternating knitting for babies with taking care of one of my Special Projects: Paper Elimination.

It is positively disgraceful how much paper I’ve got cluttering up my life. It’s no wonder I can never find anything – there’s so much ‘anything’ to flip through, it’s a wonder we haven’t all died of infected paper cuts.

I have a scanner, people, and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m going to be going through all my paper, scanning anything I might actually need and the shredding / recycling / otherwise getting rid of as much paper as humanly possible.

One other thing I want to do this weekend is work on our finances. There are two times when I lose money faster than a drunken tourist in Vegas: When I’m feeling wealthy (I can blow through a bonus check [and then some] before the ink is dry on the deposit slip), and when I’m on budgetary auto-pilot.

Every so often, it really helps to go back to Square 1 and look at everything as if I were just starting out. Try to forget what I thought I was doing and go at it as if I never had a plan.

Sometimes, I come to exactly the same conclusion – and that’s great!

Other times, I realize that something has changed along the way, and the deal isn’t as good as it used to be, or that there are better opportunities out there.

I’m not a person who prays that $DEITY will drop a million bucks in my lap. But I do pray, darn near daily, that I will be awakened to all the blessings and opportunities that surround me, each and every day.

And also, that I can fend off my lazy long enough to make a grab for them.

Because sitting on my ever-expanding rear end saying, “Wow, yeah, that might have been a really cool deal…” is, uh, a little less than helpful…

And also, I’m fired

I spent $48.50 at the supermarket today. I'm SO fired, people. What did I say? What was it? Something about...not going to buy stuff we don't need, try to just get milk and eggs, blah blah blah, something about USING WHAT I'VE ALREADY GOT before I whip through the supermarket like Barbie hitting the mall...

Six gallons of milk – needed it.
Six gallons of apple juice – needed it.
Bag of apples, bunch of bananas and bag of onions – I’ll call that needed.

But for the four quarts of cranberry juice, four whole chickens and the…other two things? I really have no excuse. Well. Except that the freezer is almost empty of meats and the chicken was on sale for $0.69 a pound and I just couldn’t stop myself. And cranberry juice is necessary for cosmopolitan martinis, which are all that stand between the Denizens and certain flaming death right about now.

And as for the other two things…

…well…

Look. It’s like this. Sometimes? A person just needs chocolate cake. And when the Universe cares to align itself such that a person who just needs chocolate cake happens to be in the supermarket when chocolate cake mix is on sale for a buck a box, to ignore the obvious Profession of Love from $DEITY would be like looking a gift horse in the mouth.

And I’d never do such a thing.

So I bought the stinkin’ chocolate cake mix, and thanked $DEITY very much for putting the end cap next to the pharmacy pickup.

Why I bought two, however…well. For that, I have no defense apart from the observation that it seemed natural that both of my two hands each grabbed a box. Upon reflection it might not have been my best possible move, but it is what it is.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go destroy the evidence clean the kitchen.

...mmmmmm...chocolate....

No really, he was acting sick!!

So I brought my happy happy joy joy son into the doctor’s office. The office was the fullest I have ever seen it – overflowing with children ranging from about fourteen years all the way down maybe fourteen days. All of them sick with the same flu. We the parents all had the same glassy-eyed look a parent gets on the third straight day of almost no sleep. The nursing staff were stubbornly cheerful, although there was a slight wildness to their eyes as they dashed hither and yon clutching charts.

And then there was Captain Adventure, who was…dancing! And singing! And reading books! And running! And trying to get Mommy to dance with him! Ha! HAHAHAHA! Lookit me, I’m the happiest toddler in the Universe!!!!!

I had second-guessed my decision this morning, when he bestowed upon me a Happy Happy Joy Joy morning. I had groused to myself that it was a conspiracy! That I must have enemies, who had trained my son to act sick so that I would take excessive time off work and get myself fired. (I should be so lucky.)

And yet, deep inside, I had this uneasy feeling. I left the appointment alone, even though I knew it was going to be a madhouse in there today. Watching him today my logical mind said ‘eh, must have been a regular cold and he’s almost over it now’. But deep beneath logical thought, the Momma Lizard said, “WRONG! DOCTOR! NOW!”

As we went through the pre-exam screening with the nurse, I was really feeling a tad foolish. There I sat, saying “Yes, I know he’s doing the Macarena now, but, yesterday? He was really miserable…” about a child who is singing and dancing and carrying on like he’s at Mardi Gras, with nothing more than a rather mild fever and occasional deep cough to show the medical professionals today.

The nurse was giving me that look, the one the says, “While we appreciate that you are a concerned parent, STOP WASTING OUR TIME, CAN’T YOU SEE WE HAVE SICK CHILDREN TO TEND?!” (Actually, she was giving me the ‘hmm, that’s odd’ look, because she’s not one of those types who gets all superior or thinks she knows more than you do about your child – but at that point I felt like I was wasting their time, which would have been better spent helping one of those poor, wretched children huddled over buckets and baggies out in the waiting room.)

Then the doctor came in and asked what was up with our little guy. I explained again about how, in spite of seeming perfectly OK right now, I had thought that he might have ear infections or strep or something…

The doctor is listening to this as he watches Captain Adventure bumbling around the room showing off every word he knows, trying to take apart the patient bed and otherwise acting like a perfectly healthy toddler.

But to humor me, he looked in one ear.

And recoiled. Captain Adventure grinned at him cheerfully.

“Wow, that’s really red!” he said grimly. “OK, let’s check the other one…”

Another recoil. Captain Adventure laughed and clapped his hands.

“Whoa. Two for two. That’s…really something…wow. Yes. Those are really red in there. Lots of fluid, lots of pressure. Tsk tsk.”

And then he looked at the throat, cleared his own and said, “Yes, well. He’s going on amoxicillin anyway for the ears and that’s the same stuff I’d give him for the strep, but! I’d like to do the instant strep test anyway. That’s something you ought to know about if he has it, siblings, you, husband, more antibiotics blah blah blah…”

Sure.
As.
Spit.

The child has strep throat. It didn’t take no seven minutes to get that result, either – BAM! Two bold pink lines leapt forth to proclaim that THIS CHILD HAS STREP THROAT!!!!!!

Now, I want you all to stop for a moment and ponder how that poor baby must have been feeling. High fever. Strep throat. TWO infected ears. Remembering my last bout of strep, I seem to recall body and head ache also played a significant role in my misery.

My doctor gave me codeine, people. Captain Adventure was being fed nothing more than children’s Tylenol – two MeltAways every four hours.

He entertained everyone at the pharmacy. He waved like a prince at his adoring fans at the supermarket. He cooed charmingly at the nice lady at Jack in the Box as she handed over the french fries.

“Oh, what a cute little guy!” they all said.

He was chatting me up as we got home. “Eh-oh! Buh-bye! Door! Ack-et! [jacket, for those of you who do not speak toddler] Muh-mah! MUH-MAH! [translation: fork over the fries, woman!] Good! Mine! Yum!!”

Quite the conversation going. I buckled him into his chair and gave him his french fries and some of my hamburger, which he began tucking into like a champion. Chatter gave way to murmurs, which gave way to nothing but the occasional sound of a juice cup being picked up and set down, which gave way to…silence…

Without so much as a thud, there he was: Fast asleep on the table, a french fry dangling from his lips like a malformed and oddly colored cigarette. {Pause to pray that this is the closest thing to an actual cigarette I will ever see dangling from his adorable little lips, amen.}

Out. Cold.

Now I told you that, so I could tell you this: I catch strep throat if I am in the same county with another person who has it.

I will bet you a burrito right here and now that not only will I catch the strep, it will manifest itself Friday evening, right after my doctor has gone home for the weekend.

Betcha.

Happy happy joy joy

Tuesday afternoon the phone rang. My gut said “don’t answer that!”, but I answered it anyway.

Daycare. Captain Adventure had a fever.

@*^&@.

See, in my twisted brain, if I hadn’t answered the phone, he wouldn’t have had the fever. I know that in reality it doesn’t work that way – but I reject your reality and substitute my own. If I don’t know about it, it doesn’t exist. Poor kid would have been spared two whole days of misery, if I had just gone with my first instinct and not picked up the phone.

Fortunately, it was the end of the day and I went and got him and no harm was done to my relationships at work – which actually are in danger due to the downright excessive number of days in the last two months during which I have had between one and ten Denizens home with me making a ruin of my working day.

Yesterday he was a bundle of feverish, angsty toddler. So naturally, I made an appointment for him to get his ears and throat checked out by a Qualified Medical Professional, here defined as ‘a person able to write a prescription for Pink Stuff’.

This morning, he was a bundle of angsty toddler…right up until the moment he realized that is was going to be just him, and mommy – his favorite personal slave.

Now? He is Mr. Chuckles. Mr. Charm and Personality. Mr. Sparkling Conversation. Mr. Just So Darned Glad To See Ya.

**sigh**

While I can’t take the day off (job monitor duty, how I loathe thee), I am taking it as a half-a$$ed working day. I come in here, check email and job status, fire off a few comments, and then ditch back into the playroom to cuddle and nurture my sick son – or knit if he’s in one of those ‘don’t touch me, woman! – but do sit in here with me in case I change my mind’ moods. In about an hour, we’re going to the doctor’s office, and then the supermarket / pharmacy (definitely the former, the latter if Pink Stuff is indeed prescribed for ears or throat), and then Supercuts to see if he’s still got eyes under all that hair.

And then? I’m thinking junk food for lunch. Stuff I never let them have – french fries and popcorn chicken at KFC. And stuff I shouldn’t have but will anyway, like maybe one of those KFC bowl things (which I swear should be banned as a leading cause of obesity and diabetes and who knows what-all else) or one of their chicken pot pies or something else I shouldn’t be eating but WOMAN DOES NOT LIVE BY LEAN CUISINE ALONE, PEOPLE!!!!

OK. Glad we’re clear on that. Now if you’ll excuse me, my Lord and Master would like his #1 Slave to return to playroom so he can drool on her some more…

What he said

mbhunter wrote an article called Sixteen ways being disorganized costs you money.

I agree with all of them, but right immediately now I must confess the very last one hit a rather raw nerve:

Huge amounts of lost productivity. I’ve probably spent several months of my life looking for something that I’ve misplaced. Or I’ve been working at 25% capacity because all of the visual and mental noise of disorganization just wears me down; I don’t know what to do or even where to start on a project sometimes.

Let me hear the choir say, “AMEN!”

I have spent more time in the last few days alone wandering around muttering, “Keys…keys…keys…where the @*^&@ are my @*^&@ing keys?!” than I like to admit in a public forum. Ditto the checkbook, any jacket that isn’t so huge it could be used to protect an orange tree from frost, laptop cables, game cards and printer paper.

I probably could have finished knitting an entire baby blanket, if I had that time back.

I am not one of those people who was designed by nature to be organized. Or a do-er. Or a stick-to-it-er. In brief, I’m easily distracted. However sternly I say to myself, “OK! We’re getting rid of all those magazines today!”, what I will somehow end up doing is re-reading all the magazines, going online to research something said in an article I don’t think is 100% accurate, writing a fifteen page essay on why, while the author has a certain point, he is wrong-wrong-wrong, and then, forgetting that I’ve pulled the magazines off the shelves and scattered them all over the hall, come charging out of the office in the dark, late as usual, and trip over them.

My battles with Chaos are constant, and sometimes (usually) seem rather pointless. Especially when I’m wandering through the house cursing under my breath looking for my keys !!AGAIN!!, and finding nothing but huge stacks of abandoned magazines, newspapers, children’s artwork and homework, and lonely socks.

I have to confess, sometimes I really do get depressed about it. Angry, even. I’ve even been known to stomp around slamming cabinet doors and yelling things like, “Doesn’t anybody else know how to pick up a @*^&@ing sock around here?!” and “Why do you all hate me so much? Why? WHY?!”

Which is a bit unfair. Sure, I have some help with it, but honestly most of the mess comes from…me. I set things down with the best of ‘I’ll come right back to pick this up’ intentions, and then…well. I get distracted. One thing leads to another, and I never get back to it and ‘suddenly’ there it is. A pile of crap so high tourists are asking me to take their pictures in front of it.

Sometimes I look at it and I say things like, “That’s it. I’m leaving it. It can just stay there until the kids are all grown and flown! Then maybe I’ll be allowed to have a clean, organized house!!”

Sure, maybe. Then again, I may have umpteen zillion grandkids charging through the Den at all times, leaving a stream of homework, drawings, lonely socks and half-eaten oatmeal bars in their wake.

Sometimes I wonder if the cavewomen went through the same thing. Did they go around the cave picking up half-gnawed bones, stone chips and sinew fragments, snarling at their children, “Would it kill you people to pick up after yourselves?!”

Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.

But undaunted (or at least, unwilling to give up the war even if a few of the battles don’t go my way), I keep trying. I keep shoveling, even though the blizzard still rages. The mailman, school system, after school programs and stormy outdoor weather (which brings dead leaves, mud, soaking jackets, shoes and socks which are shed by the Denizens at earliest opportunity and dropped wherever they happen to be standing at the time) side with the Chaos and attempt to overwhelm me; but with the help of my mate I stand firm and continue the fight. Semper Pertinax!!!

Occasionally it gets ahead of me; occasionally I get ahead of it.

As long as it getting ahead doesn’t consistently coincide with company coming over, I figure I’m winning the war.

…wait!...

…what’s that rustling sound?...sounds like…like…a piling of junk mail, attempting a sneak attack on the left flank!!

En garde, villains!!

If you heard a “swooooooooooshKKK!” noise…

…that was my hands, sucking in about a quarter cup of moisturizer.

This is amazing. So I went out to run errands, and as I reached out to take the bag loaded with Taco Bell fare (yummm, cheesy goodness) I noticed that my skin was cracked on my left hand. Just a little crack, a fine line of red, but worth a closer look.

It was like something out of a horror movie. I pulled my hand back and put it up in front of my face, flexed my fingers…and a seam opened up along my pinkie and it started to no-for-real bleed. Not gushing or anything (and, thankfully, no aliens burst forth from within), but enough to make me yelp and grab a napkin to keep it from getting on anything.

For a split second I thought, Oh my gosh! It’s that flesh-eating disease, I just KNOW it!!! (Um, yes, I have hypochondriac leanings. Which is why someday I’m going to actually die of something stupid, because I always laugh off the thing I’m “obviously” dying of, because I know I’m probably just being a hypochondriac) (also, I should probably quit reading outdated articles at WebMD.)

And then I realized it wasn’t anything of the sort (see? I should always ignore my first instinct – at least with my own self. If, however, I think one of the Denizens has an ear infection? I don’t care if you can’t see it yet with your $400 ear-see-er-into-er-thingee and 18 years of medical training, it’s there. I can sense an ear infection hours, nay!, days before medical science can pick one up…). It was just dry skin wreaking its havoc on my hands.

It’s like a gnarly paper cut, and now that I’ve noticed it, it hurts like one, too. Smarts out all proportion to actual seriousness. I also noticed that I have several smaller but similar cracks around the bases of most of my fingers, and that the skin of my entire hands up to the wrist is so dry that it looks like someone has taken a belt sander to me.

When I got home, I dove into my bathroom, emerged triumphantly with a Costco-sized bottle of Curel, and took a couple full pumps into my palm expecting I’d need a towel for the excess.

Nope. What I’d need would be another couple full pumps, and then about a half pump to finally get to the point where my hands were “full”.

Still didn’t need a towel, though. It sank in with the application of a little warmth from the space heater. My hands sucked all that greasy goop in like a frat boy hitting the Budweiser keg. Swooooooooshk!!!

I swear, my left hand belched the alphabet afterwards. Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff, right there. Good to the last drop.

{pause to hum Maxwell House theme to self}

{Great. Now I want more coffee.}

Now, for heaven’s sake, people. Can you tell me, can you please tell me, how somebody gets their hands into such a State without noticing? You know, before the bleeding part? It isn’t like I don’t look at them frequently – hello, this very morning I was picking up a button band on a preemie sweater, which is not exactly “…and I was reading The Economist while I did so” work. No. I was staring at my hands. They’ve even been dropping little hints throughout the day, aching and complaining more than usual about the cold and such.

But no.

I ignored their pleas for help until they were forced to open gaping wounds (ok, a tiny paper cut like slit about as wide as my pinkie nail, geeeeesh!, do you all know how to ruin the drama of the moment with ‘reality’!) to get my attention.

That ain’t right, y’all. It just ain’t right…

In Other News: I will die if I don’t win this house.

OK. Not really.

But I’d really love to win it.

Even though I’m not going to on account of because I think I have a better chance of being hit by lightning, and my mother would kill me dead if I won this house and moved myself and four of her six grandchildren to !?Colorado?!* (go ahead, ask her how she feels about the idea of us moving to !?Colorado?!), and YES I KNOW, it snows in !?Colorado?! and I have no idea what that’s like blah blah eight miles uphill in the snow barefoot both ways YES! I KNOW!!

But look…a cozy knitting spot…walk in closets for the yarn…home office from which to buy more yarn…a cold climate where knitting with wool would be considered a plus…

…and ‘go play in your room’ is two floors down…

**sigh**

Why yes, please do sign me up to win…

* Pronunciation guide: !?Colorado?! is said in a high, squeaky, disbelieving voice with accents of superior knowledge indicating that the person speaking of !?Colorado?! might as well be talking about moving to the 9th ring of Dante's Inferno and that such things ought not to be said, at least not in polite society, so let's talk about something else, shall we, such as staying in California where we DARN WELL BELONG and not sullying our thoughts with such things as !?Colorado?! or WORSE! !!!Connecticut!!! {swoon!}

Loopholes and other excitement

For the first time in I can’t even guess how long, I have the Den to myself today.

Let us pause for a moment to enjoy the quiet. The lack of anybody talking. The lack of other people coughing, the sound of video games or cartoon or little piping voices screeching, “No! I’m the fairy princess unicorn fairy, you’re the fairy princess turnip fairy!!” No husband suddenly erupting with, “You know what ELSE is stupid? Blah blah code yadda server and HOW COME THEY DON’T JUST blah blah blah blah BLAH BLAH BLAH”.

No friends, no family, nobody expected, and if the doorbell rings? I ain’t answering it, ‘cause I ain’t expectin’ nobody.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaah. The freedom to use bad grammar without worrying that your kids are going to repeat it is a beautiful thing.

I love the sound of double negatives in the morning.

You know what else is wonderful? Being able to say to yourself, “I think I’m going to take myself out to lunch today while I’m running errands”, and not having it be a two hour ordeal involving five or six or ten other people’s schedules and dietary concerns.

Just me and Taco Bell, baby. Might even spring for the steak burrito, that’s how frisky I am today, people. Besides. I have a $10 gift card to Taco Bell burning a hole in my pocket. Might even get some of those cinnamon thingees while I’m at it, that’s how wealthy I’m feeling right now.

But that’s not what has me the most excited. I realized that there is a Grand and Glorious loophole in my Knit From Your Stash rules.

Are you ready? It involves the definition of ‘gifts of yarn’.

You see. There are many forms of yarn gift.

There is the ‘open the box, there’s the yarn’ kind of yarn gift.

And then there’s the gift certificate to a yarn store. Which is obviously a gift of yarn, because c’mon. I have all the books, needles and notions a reasonable person could ever need in a single lifetime.

A yarn store is of course defined as a store which sells yarn, right?

In which case, it naturally follows that if one were to receive a gift card to WalMart? Well. It’s obviously a gift of yarn, which is allowable under Rule #3.

HA! I run rings around me logically!!!

Actually, the yarn I’m going to get at WalMart with my gift cards would also have been allowable under 2b, If someone asks for a specific knitted gift that we really and truly do not have the yarn for, we may buy yarn to knit that gift. One of “my” knitting charities is currently requesting scarves and hats, lots and lots and lots of scarves and hats, in dark colored machine wash/dry yarn, for homeless people and teens who are literally freezing to death out there.

I have nothing in my stash that is dark and machine wash / dry. I have light things that are machine wash and dry (currently being made into baby things), and I have dark things that are hand wash only – they would felt like the dickens if you tossed them into a machine. But dark AND machine wash? Nothing. Not even a sorry remnant ball.

So I’m going to be trading my WalMart gift card for as many skeins of the warmest, softest machine-wash yarn in dark colors I can (in)decently abscond with and the needles are going to be flying. I can’t imagine how those poor people are surviving, considering how cold I feel sitting in my house, with the central heating going AND a space heater under my wee little shivering feet while perpetually clutching a mug of hot tea in California for Pete’s sake! (although the cold out here belies the California-sun theory – we got down to the low teens out here last night – pipes burst all over town – people who moved here from Minnesota standing on the curb screaming, It isn’t supposed to do that HERE! We were LIED TO! We want our MONEY BACK!!! – it’s ugly, people, ugly).

In other news…I’m finishing a wee little preemie sweater right now. As always, I’m somewhat appalled by how small it is. I always look at these and think, “No. That’s too small. Dang it, might as well give that one to the children to play with…”

And then I remember that preemies can be as small as 3 pounds. Three pounds. We have dolls bigger than that in this house. Small wonder that they’re always so welcome – I defy you to find something in this size at any of the usual places for baby clothing!

OK. So. I’m going to Taco Bell now. And WalMart, and Bed Bath and Beyond, and the bank, plus also to Supercuts for a bang trim. Why am I doing about triple the errands today? Well, first of all, it gets me out of doing the ironing (again), which is never a bad thing. Also, I am such a big old coward that I put it off…and put it off…aaaaaand put it allllll off…until I had a day like today, when Count(Denizens) = 0.

Because when I take them with me? The begging and whining and ‘can’t I just have’ stuff makes me want to lie down on the floor and cry. And in WalMart, this is not a good idea because WalMart customers will simply run right over the top of you to get to the ‘good’ stuff.

Having to go to several stores I’m not all that fond of all in one day is a just punishment for my lack of spine.