The Upside Of Garage Sales

You know, with all my griping and moaning about the garage sale, I forgot to mention the fun stuff. Like the Little Old Lady Brigade who stopped by and picked over everything, howling and cackling as they ribbed each other and teased my husband. They were awesome to the nth degree. And not just because they bought a ton of my crap.

And the couple who caught a peek of Fraulein Greta in the garage and begged to see her in all her glory. Turns out they are also vintage VW enthusiasts. They were appropriately awed by her beauty, insisting that Mr. Clairol join them at their next Bus Club meeting. Yes, there are VW clubs. Some are split into specific makes, like the Split Bus Club, which celebrates the safari window buses. Other clubs are equal opportunity VW lovers. It's weirdly cool.

Or the man who cruised by in a '64 Austin Healey, only to break down in front of our house. I think God was rewarding my husband for something, because I haven't seen him that excited for a long time. He got to tootle around under the hood for a good half-hour, then came back for the floor jack, because things were getting serious. Turns out the guy had done some extensive work on it, but had fuel pump issues. I got a detailed explanation, but you don't really want me to try and recap it for you. Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty. I do remember that the car was worth about $40,000 and that they had put in a/c and repainted it, reversing the two-tone color scheme. This hurt my husband, who is a big fan of original paint. I personally would rather have a pretty car, but I just don't understand the magic of original paint. Whatever.

But my favorite? The couple who came in full Boy Scout uniform, his fuzzy, white man 'fro tamed by his cap, her uncut-since-'75 hair in all it's split-end glory. Patches blazing, sashes fluttering, sensible shoes kissing the pavement. She bought some of my bake ware, offering to share her recipe for multi-grain oatmeal bars. You better believe I took her up on that one. She promised to bring it by, sometime this week. And damn straight, I'm making it. That was a woman who looked like she knew multi-grains. And possible a legume or two.

So despite my whining, the G-sale wasn't all bad. Not good, but not a horrible, soul-shriveling acid bath either. But I'm upholding my vow. There's no way I'm ever doing that again. Of course, I said that after the birth of each of my children and look where I am now.

Remind Me Of This Next Summer

I don't really have much to say about the recent spate of celebrity deaths. I'm still recovering from the trauma of having a garage sale.

I HATE having a garage sale, but I never remember why and how much I hate the process until I'm hip deep into it. And like every time before, I'm vowing that I will never, ever have another garage sale. Amen.

The preparation is a pain. Gathering up unwanted items, cleaning them, trying to price them, what a hassle! But what I really hate is the sale itself. I despise dickering. I swear, people must read that on my face, because they become ruthless. Some old man asked me what I wanted for a handful of random auto parts and when I said 25 cents, he pressed two nickels into my hand and said, "That's it."

WHAT? And I let him do it! That pisses me off now, but my brother had a good point. Was the extra 15 cents worth arguing over? No. The principle probably was, but I didn't realize that until I was still fuming, an hour later. Then there was the couple who came with an armload of quarter-a-piece clothes and said, "$4, right?" When I counted, they had 25 pieces. I hemmed and hawed, feeling like a quarter was a pretty good deal for a jacket. Then the woman spins me this yarn about donating them to orphans. Give me a frickin' break, lady. I almost stood firm, but damn it all to hell, I caved. And let her take a tablecloth for half the ticket price. Sucker, thy name is Jen.

The sad thing is, this was maybe a half-hour into the sale. I hadn't even gotten desperate yet. Because about two hours in, I was hot and tired and sick of finding crap that should have been put out hours ago. I wanted the damn sale to be done and I wanted to float in my pool with a fruity drink. And about 11:30, that's exactly what I did. After helping Mr. Clairol box up the remnants, I whipped up a yummy cocktail, slipped on my suit and floated in my pool. I highly recommend this if you're contemplating a garage sale.

G-Sale Antidote

3/4 c cubed, seedless watermelon
2 oz coconut rum
1/2 C crushed ice

Whirl it in the blender and pour into a tall glass. Best when sipped on the water, hot pool boy (or husband) for garnish. And yes, I had rum before noon. The normal rules are suspended in the wake of a garage sale.

Free Chocolate!

Were you all aware that Mars is giving away chocolate? FOR FREE? I know! I feel like Steve Martin in The Jerk. The free chocolate is here! The free chocolate is here!!

Here's the deal: Go here on Fridays and enter your birthday. (There seems to be an age requirement, though I'm not sure why. It's chocolate, not whiskey.) Fill out your information and in about four weeks, you'll get a coupon in the mail for a free candy bar. You can get up to four of these coupons, one per week, which is a nice free candy haul.

Of course, I'm not eating the free chocolate. I'm passing the coupons onto my husband. Because if I can't lose the weight, I might as well make him fat too!

Really????

As a woman, I have accepted that I will never entirely understand the male thought process. As an educator, I realize that certain behaviors are typical for a boy. As a mother, I'm going to have to draw the line at using you wanger to fight dinosaurs. There have to be limits and that appears to be mine.

You have no idea how much I wish I were making this up.

B AFRD

I am notoriously slow to embrace new technology. In fact, most of my technological advancement has been the result of someone dragging me. I blog and Facebook because Jenny nagged me until I broke down. The only reason I even have a cell phone is because Mr. Clairol bought me one and put me on his plan when we got serious. I drove a clunker and thinking about me stranded somewhere made him twitchy. When he wanted to upgrade me to a Blackberry, I refused. My little slider is just fine, does what I need, doesn't cost a fortune.

But there is an inexorable draw into texting that is becoming harder and harder to fight. Some of my friends are much younger than me and texting is common for them. They prefer it to phone calls and for a couple, it is the only way to get a hold of them. That definitely is a factor. But when you consider that I am the parent of a teenager? Well, hell, it's a minor miracle that I'm not texting already.

Drama Queen got a fancy-dancy new phone for her 8th grade graduation, courtesy of her ridiculously over-indulgent grandparents. I'd love to rant about this, but I am staring at the Wii they bought me for Christmas. The phone has a slide out keyboard for easy texting and the minute I saw it, I added unlimited texting to her cell plan. She's done really well, limiting herself to the 200 texts a month that she was allotted, but none of us realized you get charged for the incoming texts as well. Can you say "bend over, sucker?" And with a new phone that has a qwerty keyboard? Forget it, fool. It's easier now. It's cooler. Unlimited texting is pretty much inevitable.

What I didn't realize is that I would need unlimited texting as well. I don't text. The whole "R U srus", no punctuation thing drives me batshit. I am an English teacher in my heart of hearts, so typing R for are makes me want shrivel up and die. Not to mention how tedious it is. It takes me five frickin' minutes to type in "yes." But this communication is becoming second nature to daughter number one, so Mom needs to get with the program. Like, yesterday.

We ran over to Barnes and Noble this morning and I was sitting, sipping my iced coffee, perusing the new Stephanie Plum when my phone goes off and I see I have a text from my daughter. Who is in the store. Maybe three or four aisles over. What the ever-loving hell? But I responded, and not with a pithy, "WTF, gt ur ass ovr hr n tlk 2 me." No, I succumbed and four exchanges later, I realized that the extra ten dollars for unlimited texts across all of our plans was going to save me money in the long run.

God help us all, but I am officially a texter. I'm pretty sure this is one of the signs fortold in Revelation.

I Don't Want To Be Ungrateful...

but it's embedded in my skill set, so I can't really help myself.

Three words: Vacation. Bible. School.

I love the Presbyterian church that is down the street from us. They have a really active children's ministry that is open to the community, not just members. So for $50, I bought myself 3 child-free hours, for five days straight. Angels singing, palm fronds waving, all is happy and right with my ever-lovin' world. Right?

Except...Red is just starting to really understand the whole potty thing. And now, for a huge chunk of the morning, he's in a Pull-up, not thinking about using a toilet. There are new toys and pretty teen-age girls in this room. My little man is in heaven. Seriously, he cried when I left, but three minutes later, I peeked in the window and he was in the arms of a young woman, stroking her hair, laughing and talking up a storm. *insert eye roll here*

So it's not even on his radar, which means we are taking a pretty major step backwards in the whole potty process. If I were more committed to this endeavor, I probably would have cancelled his registration and kept him home, while Missy enjoyed some Mommy-less time. But hello???? Throw away 15 child-free hours so I can get peed on? OH HELL NO! That's not committed, that's need to be committed.

Who knows where we'll be come Saturday. I may be starting at square one, or he may snap right back to it. I'll be trying to keep us on track in the afternoons, while I simultaneously make dinner, do the laundry, manage the teen's boredom and wear the little ones out enough to go to bed on time. No big whoop. Piece of cake.

Come visit me in the asylum, okay? I hear they serve cookies.

There Is A Light At The End Of Tunnel But It's Yellow

Things have been...weird around here. Not in a bad way, more a summer break is here and what the hell am I supposed to do with these three kids, sort of way. I've been out of the house more than I've been in it and when I am at my computer, I'm wading through the countless Facebook generated emails I get and playing Farkle or FarmTown or Prime Suspects. I'm well on my way to becoming a gamer. Be afraid. And if I start mentioning Warcraft, one of you must come tranquilize me and bring me in for deprogramming. Thanks in advance for refraining from unnecessary roughness.

I've been thinking a lot about my life. Forty is approaching and I'm trying to become an actual author. You know one who has actual books, published and sold in those large bookstores. We're trying to figure out how to afford a minor relocation and some acreage. I'm looking to become a little more redneck. Again, be afraid. But this is bringing some deep navel-gazing. I'll be kind and spare you the pondering of my soul.

And last but not least, I'm potty-training the last rug-rat. Those of you without children might not understand the time and commitment that go into a venture like this, but it is akin to bringing up the Titanic. I spent a year (not exaggerating) in the preliminary plan stage, watching him for signs of readiness, making experimental forays, searching for underpants with dinosaurs on them and talking to mothers of boys. Because teaching a little boy to use the toilet is a far, far different proposition than the teaching of the opposite gender.

I'm going into this bare. Not literally naked, though that would cut down on the laundry. No, my nakedness is the figurative sort, in that I know nothing about training a boy and there are some complications I hadn't considered. Like aim. Yeah, you heard me. In the general scheme of my life, being peed on was not a event that I had envisioned. Maybe a little, here or there. A girl's gotta live her life, feel me? But I begin to suspect that my darling little son, the fruit of my loins, is being...shall we say, deliberately careless? It's so much nicer than accusing the little shit of purposefully peeing on the woman WHO GAVE HIM LIFE!

We've taken the sitting approach after finding that Red is awfully fond of "yanking his wanky," to paraphrase the great Gedde Watanabe (all hail The Donger). But the sitting approach, while reducing his opportunity to mangle his meat, is fraught with peril. The peril of airborne urine, which, my friends, is not a peril to be lightly taken. He's small, so one would assume there would be a correspondingly small amount of urine stored. Not so, as it turns out. I'm renaming my bathroom The Bellagio. I'm trying to remind him to push it down, but he is a little aggressive about that and his bladder takes offense. It stops the stream when he jams his Tinky-Winky so hard it disappears into body. I can't blame Mr. Bladder. I would strike as well. But it must feel good because he isn't shy about it, to say the least. Are you feeling the good times? I'm spending hours of my life, crouched beside a toilet saying things like, "push it gently, gently! Now pee. Pee! Yay, that's great KEEP PEEING! NOOO! Try to push a little more out, honey." I don't get paid enough for this.

Then there is the underwear issue. Red has definite opinions about what he wants to wear. Things he will wear: socks, shorts, t-shirts, underpants that has dinosaurs or Nemo on it.
Things he will not wear: everything else.
The underpants have been a recent development. I had to get tough. He cried, begged for diapers, and I was left thinking, oh yeah, now you want to keep a diaper on. I was cruel and guess what? He's down with the undies now. This was due in no small part, to my lovely mother finding dinosaur underwear. He's partial to the orange T-Rex, but those visit the washing machine with alarming frequency. The gray pterodactyl have to do in a pinch.

He's discovered the beauty of underpants in lieu of diapers. Undies provide easy access to his package. So now, in addition to teaching him how to potty in the toilet, I have to teach the boy that one should not walk around with ones hand in ones waistband all damn day long. He can reach the goods now and he likes it. A lot. Oye. It would be less frustrating if he didn't laugh when I scolded him. He finds it hilarious when I shriek, "RED! Stop grabbing your wee-wee!" Okay, I can see how that would be funny, but folks, I have nightmares about the calls I'll be getting when preschool starts up.

Now do you understand the lamentable lack of posting? I swear, I haven't been lounging by the pool, eating watermelon and reading romance novels. Well, yes, I have, but be honest. You wouldn't trade me places for all the watermelon and Judith McNaught in the world. Being peed on is gross.

Waking Up

I've been unmedicated for a few weeks now. The difference is scary. It's not that I started thinking I didn't need the medication or anything like that. I just got busy and one missed pill turned into 30. I'm going to be brutally honest. I need to stay medicated.

It's not just that things don't get done when I don't take my pills. It's that I start withdrawing from my life. I drink more, I eat more, I sleep less. I spend more time at the computer, but not building relationships. No, I do stupid things like read celebrity gossip and build virtual farms.

I'm not quitting Farm Town. All hail the farm.

I start saying mean things and ignoring overtures from people in my life. I begin to believe that the people around me secretly hate me and are making fun of me behind my back. This is actually probably true, but when I take my pills, I just don't give a damn. I hate myself unmedicated. I'm all about better living through chemicals.

So I'm back. Sort of. Slowly, I'm establishing order again, aware that consistency is the watchword. I don't want an older Missy to write about the horrible stretches where her mother cried for no reason and spent hours staring at a computer screen. I want to be present again. I want to be with friends again. I want to really live.

What Do You Think?

Let's say, hypothetically, that a married couple had retired for the night and is the process of...well...being a married couple. The being is interrupted by a certain preschooler who's dinner has made a reappearance. All over her bed. And her person. (Um yeah, you double sheetin' haters? Neener-neener.)

Bed's stripped, child is bathed and couple has returned to bed. Is it bad that the...being...continued as if nothing had interrupted? I can't decide if we they are really bad parents or really great spouses. Hypothetically, of course.

Pass the Ketchup

Damn, I hate eating my words. Remember this post? And how you guys rushed to defend me? Well get out the pitchforks, 'cause guess who jumped on the friggin' sanctimony train?

Someone on facebook made a joke about a "mute point" and what do I do, but comment, "It's moot point." Like some uptight English teacher. Geez, I can be a jerk.

They're going to take away my godless whore badge. I just know it.

In Addition To Being A Godless Whore...

...and a grammar correcting facebook bitch, I am a blog-tease. And you love it.

I will be sharing more about Red's hair disaster. I promise. I lost all my pictures from the memory card and though my sorry heinie was saved by a preschool mom who caught my son's poor noggin for posterity, I can't post a picture until I get the hard copy from shutterfly.

Here's a teaser: mohawk.

Is It Just Me?

A few days ago, on Facebook, I mentioned that I loved the book Positive Discipline A-Z, by Jane Nelsen. I think I claimed it was the best parenting book ever. Which is a pretty broad claim, I know. Maybe I'm full of crap. In fact, I'm definitely full of crap, but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, I really like this book.

But here's the problem with making statements like that. You open yourself up to the sanctimonious "haters." You know the ones.

A "friend" comes back with, "Actually, I prefer blah blah blah book," followed by an explanation of how it helps you raise Christian children. Ooooo-kay.

That really climbed my spine. On the surface, it seems like an innocuous comment. And had it been phrased differently, it would not have even registered. But the way it was said (typed?) just turned it into a "you poor ignorant soul, you have no idea what you're talking about and if you were any kind of parent, you would be using this book instead, you Godless whore," jab.

Yeah, I'm a little sensitive these days.

I'm curious. Do y'all think I'm being a little hyper-sensitive, or was this chick trying to score points off of me? It doesn't matter because I'm not going to throw down on her or anything. Lord, could you imagine? A Facebook grudge match? I could wear pink and turquoise tights, with a glittery mask. Awe-some. Part of it might be that our politics are wildly different, but honestly, I'm down with having your own opinion, as long as you express it respectfully. I don't know, it seemed a little snarky and superior and it's chafing at me.

And I could just let it go, but let's be honest, I'm waaaaay too bitchy to do something that mature.

Meaningless Meandering

The word "meandering" is one my new favorites. That and "buttmunch". I am weird.

Big doings in our home. Red is getting potty-trained. I should have expected the unexpected, but his objection to underpants has shocked me. Those character-emblazoned briefs I bought to bribe him with? Nope. He hates them. Hates. Them. I foresee him going commando as a young man. And if you think I am over-sharing, you are obviously new to this blog.

I know I've shared my Kindergarten drama ad nauseum, but there was a new wrinkle yesterday. I gave up on the Montessori school and decided that God had listened to my prayers and intervened to place her in the ideal environment. Missy is currently enrolled at a wonderful public school with a strong academic program and a fervent belief that the arts are an essential part of education. Except...she got into the Montessori Project.

Please, please, please do NOT pee on my parade here. I am aware that Montessori education is not for every child. But after touring many programs and investigating all of the affordable options for her education, I want to try a Montessori school. I have an education degree, I have carefully researched this and I know my child. I do not want to hear about why Montessori education is going to be the ruin of my child. Thank you.

So now I am readjusting my plans, being very thankful I didn't buy a bunch of fall-winter clothes for her (uniforms) and thanking God that He is faithful. And yes, I know it probably seems lame and I am well aware that God has more important things to do than shape my child's education. But that's the beauty of God. Even though He does have more important things to do, He cares enough to listen to a mother's prayers.

And I am a total sap. I actually cried when I listened to the message.

By the way, my children are pretending to panic because they are stuck at the top of a mountain. I just told them to panic in an indoor voice. Such is the life of a SAHM.

Lastly, I was talking to Jenny yesterday and for some reason we were talking about bedding. In the spirit of openness, I shared with her a ridiculously anal behavior that I indulge in. She promptly told me I must share this with my readers. She claims it's a fantastic idea, but I really think she just wants you all to know how deep my crazy runs.

I double sheet the little one's beds. That's right. Each child sleeps on a waterproof mattress pad, fitted sheet, flat sheet, second waterproof pad, second fitted sheet and second flat sheet. Don't judge me. There is a method to the madness though. After many late night sheet changes that resulted in a wide awake child, I tried this and discovered it was the quickest way to clean sheets and a sleeping child. If bed-wetting or sickness fouls the sheet, I whisk off the soiled set to reveal the clean set underneath. And honestly, making the bed back up doesn't take much longer. So there you have it. I'm either brilliant or bizarre. Probably a bit of both.

Thus ends another session of randomness. Goodnight and Good Luck.

You may have noticed my posting has become less frequent. To be honest, my obsession with Farm Town has become an illness. I'm seeking help.

But more than that is a deep desire to spend time with my children. I've been limiting my computer time and trying to spend more time at tea parties and car races. It's a little boring to be honest, but what's that compared to Missy looking at me at bedtime, thanking me for playing ponies.

Yes, the dishes have piled up and my linen closet is pretty trashed because the kids helped fold and put away towels. I actually stayed home from church yesterday, so that I could give the kitchen floor a good scrubbing. But it's so worth it.

As I start to find balance, I'll resume a more regular posting schedule. I'll still be throwing random bits and pieces up now and then and I have a hysterical story (with pictures) about my first attempt at cutting Red's hair. Bear with me, friends.

I'm off now. I have a date with a handsome young man and some dinosaurs.