Tell Me Again HOW My Camera Got Broken?

Christmas day should be a day filled with laughter, love, and family.

Christmas day at the house of chaos is filled with tears, yelling, and frustration. Christmas day was the day Jackson discovered the digital camera had been broken. Upon questioning the children we were told that #3 was using it when #1 tickled her and she dropped it. The lecturing began, the tears started flowing, the Christmas feeling left the building. Why can’t we have nice things? Is this a direct reflection of our poor parenting abilities?

While Dad listed the ways the children are disrespectful, I got to work digging out the $10 warranty I purchased with the camera 8 months earlier. Is it bad when I anticipate them breaking my stuff 8 months before it actually takes place? Then I began a little investigation. I wanted to see what my dear daughters were up to right before they broke my stuff.

Here is what I found.

It’s become apparent to me that I need to assign MORE chores on those days they don’t have school. Doesn’t she have a book she could be reading?

There are several of these videos where #3 captures the everyday going’s on of her older sisters. #1 does a great job of ignoring her. #2 on the other hand is torn between her need for attention and her shyness.

Then I saw it. I saw what REALLY happened to my camera.

 

Does anyone have the number of a good boarding school?

How UPS Single-Handedly Sabotaged my Diet

Two weeks ago I decided I had sufficiently procrastinated the ordering of my Christmas cards long enough. I found a new website that would allow me to customize my cards to obtain exactly what I wanted. I opted for the $22 shipping to ensure I’d have them in 7 days. Seven days, that’s what they guaranteed. That was on Tuesday.

On Saturday I received notice that my package had shipped. I was thoroughly impressed. The UPS tracking code they sent me said it shipped out a day or two earlier and it was delivered to my front door at 2:07pm on Friday. Surprised I had missed the arrival of my package, I ventured out into the frigid Iowa air and went a-huntin’. Much to my dismay I was unable to locate the box that held my Christmas cards. It didn’t come as a surprise when I couldn’t get a hold of a human at UPS at 5:00pm on a Saturday. This issue would just have to wait until Monday.

On Monday morning I made quick friends with the digital voice on the UPS automated answering service (can you sense my sarcasm?). I maneuvered through the “here are your options, tell me which one you want.” Several times before it became apparent that I was not going to speak with an actual person at UPS. Seriously?! All I wanted to do was ask the smartly dressed UPS man what color the house was where he dropped off my box. I was more than willing to go to every white house with blue trim in all of Orange City until I was able to locate said box myself. But it was not to be. After bothering the patient lady at the UPS Store twice, I was able to talk to a human. *Side Note: if you ever find yourself dialing 1-800-PICK-UPS and needing to talk to someone, dial 00 until the automatic voice gives up and connects you to an operator. As it turns out all she would tell me was that “the package” had been delivered to my front door – nothing more than the stupid website told me two days earlier. I assured her that was NOT the case. She informed me that a trace would need to be placed by the person or business who sent “the package” and could take up to two weeks to find it. “Two weeks!? These are my Christmas cards!” I blurted out (like she cared). “I’m sorry ma’am, there’s nothing else I can tell you.”

“Ma’am” and “the package” have become my two least favorite words/phrases of the holiday season. They seem to be the only things the UPS customer service (and I use that term loosely) reps are trained to say. I really  hope they use my “…may be recorded for training purposes…” tape to teach newbie's what NOT to say to the irate lady on the other end of the phone.

So I called the company I ordered my cards from. They were very apologetic and said they’d reprint the order and rush it to me in 3 days. “Wow!” was all I could say. “You’re really going to reprint my whole order?” Sue Chen assured me this was going to be much faster and more effective than waiting two weeks for UPS. She changed the ship to address to my office to ensure a signature would be required upon delivery and said they probably wouldn’t use UPS on my next shipment given the situation.

That same day a co-worker of mine ordered her parent’s Christmas cards from the same website where they were now offering FREE shipping.

Two days later a very large snow storm swept across the great state of Iowa.

The next communication I received said I should have my “package” by Thursday via UPS (are you kidding me?!).

Today, my co-worker received her “package.” I DID NOT! “SERIOUSLY?!” She ordered her cards the SAME day I re-ordered mine! She paid NO shipping while I forked over $22 and 36 cents! She received her package at our office and I DID NOT!

I promptly grabbed her tracking number and logged on to the UPS tracking website to learn the following:

• My “package” was prepared for shipment 27 minutes BEFORE hers was.
• My “package” left the plant 2 hours and 19 minutes AFTER hers.
• Her package made a stop in Des Moines. Mine did not.
• Here package made it to Sioux Center. Mine did not due to “Adverse weather conditions”.

So, of course, I promptly picked up the phone and called my friends at UPS. This time I made short work of the work around to get past the annoying computer. The poor lady that picked up my phone call could have never anticipated what she was about to encounter, or maybe she did. Maybe UPS is such a freakin’ bad delivery service that she’s used to fielding call after call of disgruntled customers! Maybe this is her full-time job, her life, her everyday reality. Maybe she’s suicidal, or homicidal, or postal. Lord knows I would be if this is what I had to do for a living!

“I’m sorry ma’am. Your package is held up because of adverse weather conditions.” was all she could offer me. She couldn’t explain why two packages left the same plant with the same destination yet one made it while one did not. All she could tell me was that they were on two different trailers. She couldn’t even assure me that I would receive my “package” on Monday because of the adverse weather conditions. I ASSURED her I was one hour from Sioux City, the last check-in point of my package, and it was bright and sunny! I asked if I could go to Sioux City to pick up my “package” and she told me that I could not as it was not at it’s destination. I COULD HAVE TOLD HER THAT! I’M AT THE DESTINATION AND IT’S NOT HERE! THAT’S WHY I’M CALLING! She went on to inform me that they had some storms move through. I retaliated with, “YES, I’M AWARE. It snowed THREE DAYS AGO! I’m still baffled as to how one package made  it and one got held up by the ADVERSE WEATHER when they were coming and going to/from the SAME PLACE.” Then she did it. She put me on hold! Let me share this tidbit of advice to anyone out there contemplating a career in customer service. DO NOT PUT AN ALREADY IRRATE WOMAN ON HOLD! This only makes her more angry! Upon her return she could not offer me anything more than “I’m sorry ma’am. Your package is being held up due to adverse weather conditions.” “REALLY YOU PUT ME ON HOLD FOR THAT!” Then I did what any unreasonable woman in my situation would do. I hung up on her.

I promptly stomped out to the vend-a-bait area of my workplace, purchased a package of Ding-Dong’s and a can of soda and returned to my desk for lunch.

Thanks, UPS. I haven’t had a soda for a month and a half. I gave up sugar and processed flour. Because of your employee’s lack of ability to do something as simple as GET ME MY CHRISTMAS CARDS IN ENOUGH TIME FOR ME TO ADDRESS THEM AND PLACE THEM IN THE MAIL BEFORE NEW YEARS I have pissed away the last 6 weeks self-determination. It’s your fault I have to be fat. I hope you can live with that in your big brown truck!

…and by the way, what kind of person received my first package and then didn’t have the decency to look my number up in the phone book (you have my name and address and I’m in the book) and tell me you received my first package by mistake?!

**TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE** As I sat down to write this blog post, the UPS man pulled in to the driveway only to back out and drive to the next-door neighbors. “WHY DO YOU TAUNT ME WHILE YOU HOLD MY CHRISTMAS CARDS HOSTAGE!?”

Come Back to Me!

I’ve always prided myself on being a strong woman. I’m self-sufficient and have always been more of a crutch and less of a leaner. That was until this week. Jackson left on a business trip on Monday. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Nothing I haven’t survived on multiple occasions. But this time it’s different. It’s worse.

The children have broke me. What used to be sweet, kind, beautiful girls have turned into seizure-inducing, temper-provoking, monsters. I need Jackson home and tomorrow is not soon enough!

Day One with the Ingrates: “Mom, can we have pizza? We always need comfort food when Daddy leaves us.” I gave in. I bought pizza. They didn’t do anything, but finish off the leftovers before I got home the next day.

Day Two with the Monsters: Ten minutes before we are ready to leave the house that morning #3 announces that she doesn’t have any pants to wear except a pair of really tight ones. A few waistband adjustments and two jumping jacks later and we were back in the game. The children were all warned about the hectic evening - #1 & #2 had choir/orchestra/band concerts. I arrive home – the house is messy, the laundry I started on my way out the door didn’t get changed, the roast I put in the oven at 7:30am hasn’t been taken out, #2 was JUST getting in the shower, and #1 was leisurely reading in my room. Keep in mind we have one hour to get everyone dressed, fed, and out of the house. That’s only 60 minutes. In between my fits of rage, Jackson called to see how everything was going. He may have regretted that, but the girls were thankful for the break in the yelling. We attended the concerts where we lost #3 for only a short period of time. We returned home in time for dishes, showers, spelling tests, and bed.

Day Three with the Hellions: Another busy day ahead of us – I make the announcement in morning. We get to make supper for a family at church, #1 has confirmation class, and an all new episode of ANTM is scheduled to air right in the middle of the bringing and the getting. Keep in mind this is a task I usually split with Jackson so I don’t have to leave in the middle of the show. I thought for a brief minute about letting our 13 year-old drive herself. Her father’s been giving her lessons, I’m certain she could make it there safely. I’m just not sure what it does for her or my afterlife prospects, breaking laws on your way to the church – not really a chance I’m willing to take, but it was pretty touch-and-go for a few minutes. The girls picked out one of their favorite meals (chicken a la king). They suggested I make double so they can have dinner that night too. What do I look like? Their personal chef?! I left work early to stop by the store to pick up the groceries I needed. This turns in to 3 stops because the grocery store doesn’t have the cake I need and apparently WalMart is the only place that carries strawberries in November. I hate WalMart, but that’s a subject for several more posts. I arrive home to find the recycling barrel still at the street, the garage door wide open, the light on, and #2’s bike laying on the ground in the middle of it all. I walk past the gigantic picture window in our living room toting my purse, my computer, a bag of potatoes, two grocery sacks, and an angel food cake. I look like a regular pack mule. I make eye contact with two of my three daughters. Then I somehow manage to get the front door open with my foot. “DO YOU SEE ME WITH ALL THIS CRAP AND EVEN THINK YOU COULD OPEN THE DOOR?!” Let the fun begin! The laundry hasn’t been changed (again) and #1 is out on a bike ride with her friend. I don’t like being the screaming, raging, lunatic mom that small children run in fear from, so why don’t they do everything in their power to avoid getting yelled at? Would it kill you to change the laundry? Do you want to go to school naked? Can’t you see the enormous mess you made out of the living room? Do you really think I’m going to be okay with it? How long have you lived with me? We somehow managed to get dinner prepared (#2 and #3 even made the desserts), laundry got changed, food got delivered, #1 got to the church (and picked up), ANTM got viewed (for the most part), dishes got washed, the science project got assembled, spelling got reviewed, and the 8th grade English paper got brutally edited.

Day Four with the Spawns of Satan: Thursday morning is carpool. YEAH! This is a task Jackson typically owns – I’m not a morning person and I’m certainly not a butt-crack-of-dawn-with-seven-giggly-squeaky-tweens-for-four-miles kind of worman. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse… I walk into the house after work to find an eerie silence. Where are the children? Is it possible the little angels are outside getting some much-needed exercise? Uh, NO! I forgot to ask where #1 was when she showed up after dark, but #2 and #3 had taken some recently earned money and ran directly downtown to spend it on really important things like the Webkinz I told them to put on their Christmas lists and soda. I hadn’t even noticed Lucy was gone, but apparently they thought it would be a good idea to take our overweight dog with them. I’m not opposed to them walking the dog, but they rode their bikes and made her run the mile to town and back. It took her about an hour to quit panting. I truly thought she was going to die in the middle of the living room. Oh, how I was NOT prepared to deal with that. Not only did they frivolously spend their earnings, but they completely disregarded my ONE request this morning, “When you girls get home from school today you need to pick up your pigsty room”". While cleaning I overhear #2 and #3 bickering. As it turns out #3 has racked herself up ANOTHER library fine for overdue movies. She had been made aware of these overdue movies at least 2 days prior when she tried to check out a book and couldn’t. AND THE MOVIES REMAINED IN HER BOOKBAG EVEN AS I WAS SCREAMING AT HER FOR HER $35 FINE. That’s right, $35. For that, we should own the movies! I promptly made #3 ride her bike back uptown to return the DVD’s. Upon her return the library called to say they were missing one of the discs (funny how they couldn’t call to say they were racking up late fees at the speed of light, but the instant they have a cover with no disc my phone is ringing off the hook). So, back on her bike and back uptown. I’m not really sure how she’s going to pay off that fine, but I truly don’t care. I’m not paying for it and neither is her father. He covered the last $18 fine and I will NOT cover another one. The evening has calmed down significantly with two spelling test reviews, dishes washed, dried, and put away, and three little girls all tucked in their beds.

Jackson, come back to me. I was not cut out to be a single mom! I can’t parent YOUR children alone.

Man vs. Dog

Last night my husband accused me of loving our English bulldog, Lucy, more than I love him.

My first reaction was, “Whatever.” Then I thought, “Hmm…”

10 Reasons I May Love the Dog More Than the Man

1. She does a crazy-happy dance to greet me when I come home from work.
2. He ignores me and fondles the remote control.
3. She follows me around the house, wanting to be near me all the time.
4. He ignores me and continues to give the TV his undivided attention.
5. She sleeps on the floor next to my bed.
6. He encroaches all over my personal space when he sleeps making it nearly impossible for me to move or get comfortable.
7. She goes outside to do her business.
8. He does his business while I’m in the shower.
9. She goes to the corner and lays down when told.
10. He pretends he doesn’t hear me.

…he may be on to something.

Does that make me a bad mom?

I’m not a huggy-lovey type person. Never have been. #2 IS a huggy-lovey type person. She is constantly hanging on me, encroaching on my personal space, puckering up those plump lips she inherited from her father, and coming at me. She’s forever wanting to make out with me. I’ve even called her on it. For most 11 year-olds this may deter them from trying again an hour later, but not #2. She will not be discouraged. She needs her lovin’ and makes no apologies for that.

This weekend I instilled a 10 hug per week rule. I’m not even kidding. Every time she comes at me for a hug I shout out the next chronological number, thus verbally marking off another tick on the hug-ometer.

Does limiting my motherly love to a child during her most vulnerable development period make me a bad mom? I don’t think so. I say  it teaches her a valuable lesson on pacing herself!

Mutton What?!

Last evening Jack and I (more Jack MUCH less I) put on a bull ride for the non-profit we are involved with. This was my first bull ride and it was a ton of fun. The bulls are huge, pretty docile until provoked, and stubborn. They reminded me a lot of our English bulldog.

Before the bull riding began, there was mutton busting. This is where small children sign up to ride sheep. They get in the same stall as the bull riders, mount a sheep, hold on tight, and see how long they can stay on. It was hilarious! There were many children there donning their western gear (jeans, boots, hats and all). Then there were my girls in their shorts and flip flops. The first rider out of the gates was #2.

#3 was second. She was determined to stay on longer than #2 and held on TIGHT.

When the gates opened everyone laughed. Her determination paid off as she was able to score 52 points (whatever that means). She got beat by a much younger contestant. I think it was rigged.

Despite the scrapes, bruises, and lingering sore muscles, they both said they do it again.

Funny story about the mutton busting and the internet…

It was part of the marketing strategy to market to the Hispanic population via a restaurant and grocery store in a nearby town. The bull ride posters were all made up. With the use of a website, the poster was converted into Spanish. When Jack went to deliver the posters to the restaurant and market, the gentleman looked over the poster. With a smirk on his face and a chuckle, he pointed at the mutton busting picture and asked what it was. Jack explained that the children could register to ride sheep. The gentleman let out a chortle and explained that the interpretation stated they could eat the meat! HAH! He kindly changed the poster with a magic marker so misguided bull ride goers didn’t show up expecting a meal.

Picture This!

I had the best idea this year, as it pertained to picture day at the middle school. Usually, I run around the morning of picture day frantically trying to help all three of my beautiful little girls do their hair and put the final touches on the outfit they’ve picked out (or I’ve specifically bought for this occasion). Not this year, this year, I planned to alleviate as much of the chaos that surrounds picture day as I possibly could. Let’s face it, I’m no proponent of spending $26 per child to have ugly pictures taken. The children almost never smile naturally, the backdrop is a drab blue/gray draping that does nothing but wash out my impossibly white children, and almost always someone has altered a shirt/necklace/carefully placed hair tie that my OCD cannot overlook for an entire year!

In true procrastination style, I stopped by the hair salon two days before picture day. I begged our hair stylist to come in after hours and help me. She agreed and last night she took the girls into the salon and primped their hair to perfection. She put in enough gel and hairspray to endure an evening of tossing and turning and left strict instructions on how to fluff their new do’s the next morning. Genius, right?!

So, this morning I woke up with the understanding that my 11 year-old and her 13 year-old sister could get themselves dressed and ready for school with little to no effort on my part. After all, I did my part. I suckered the hairstylist into doing my work.

As it turns out, even the best laid plans can be foiled by hormonal tweens and an overbearingly anal mother.

“Mom, can you fix my hump?” (the one in her hair, not one on her back!) “NO! Julie said absolutely NO combs!” I’m not really sure how else she thought I was going to fix her hump.

“Mom, what shoes should I wear?” seriously?! no one is going to see your shoes.

Three shirt changes later, a myriad of instructions about the proper handling of a diamond necklace given as a last gift from grandpa received for Christmas the day after he went to live with Jesus, a “discussion” regarding shoes, a couple of hair primping sessions, followed by massive amounts of hairspray later and we were ready for school.

“Mom, I have gym first period. How am I going to get my shirts to lay nice like you have them and make sure I don’t mess up my hair? Can you write me a note?”

Oh, yeah, I’m sure that would be approved:

“Please excuse my daughter from gym class today. I appreciate the important role physical health plays in my child’s life, but I cannot leave my workplace to redress my child and restyle her hair. I will be busy making money to pay for the ugly things!” Sincerely, the world’s most psychotic mother.

Not a Morning Person

Yesterday my husband and I “celebrated” our 15th wedding anniversary. I say “celebrated” because the day itself was really a non-event. We celebrated properly in April with our trip to Las Vegas, so yesterday was pretty much just another day – another day with CHEESECAKE. That’s right, my honey brought me home a cheesecake and I’ve spent the better part of the last 24 hours telling the girls why they can’t eat it.

It’s been no secret for the last 15 years that I am simply not a morning person. I’m not really sure if my husband thinks I’m faking it, if he thinks I’ll grow out of it, or if he simply gets a kick of of tormenting me, but the day after our 15th wedding anniversary he thought he’d poke at me a bit.

He woke up this morning singing and whistling (both of which irritate the crap out of me before 9:00am). I was brushing my teeth trying to ignore him when it happened - #3 appeared from her room dressed in this…

 

This is a skirt she rec’d as a hand-me-down from a neighbor. I was not home when this article of clothing made it’s way into my house or I would have PROMPTLY scooped it up and did away with it. Since the day it arrived it has wreaked havoc on my life. The skirt is a little big for my nine year-old, so initially she decided to make it into a dress. If she pulls it up under her arm pits, it reaches far enough past her knees to pass the “Touch Your Toes” test. This is a test by which father decides if a skirt is too short to wear in public. If you bend over and touch your toes and Dad can’t see your panties, then you may keep it. If not, it is promptly removed and put in the box to be handed down to the next or sent to the second-hand store. She asked me several times to sew straps on this hideous thing. I thought by putting it off she’d forget, but she did not. Instead she took it upon herself to attempt to sew white ribbon straps to it. She never quite finished and I’m not sure what happened to the one she had semi-successfully attached, but today it was a skirt again.

When I questioned her on this outfit selection, she replied “Dad said I could.”

Why? Why does he do things like this? He knows there is no way I am going to allow an outfit like this to leave my house. I care about my daughter’s social well being. While Dad may not care if she never dates, I know what third grade girls eat for lunch – girls that dress like this!

The look on #3’s face pretty much sums up how she felt about how I felt about this outfit. In fact, it had been “decided” that #3 would be allowed to wear this to school. She was in her room reflecting on her mother’s opinion and doing her best to avoid a fist fight with #2 about some noise someone was making (none of my darling daughters inherited their father’s love for the early hours of the day). When I stepped in to snap this picture for this very blog post, Dad came trotting down the hall shouting, “Don’t do it. She’s going to make fun of you on her blog. Really she is. She just wants to make fun of you.” I could have punched him in the junk right then and there. Like the situation needed this prodding.

“I’m NOT going to make fun of her on my blog.”

“Yes, she is.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to make fun of YOU on my blog.”

While #3 was deciding what her real outfit should be for the day, my loving husband (the one with the death wish) followed me into the kitchen and caught me in a big bear hug. Seriously? He then makes lovey-dovey talk at me in an effort to cheer me up (like some how his antics will magically make me all better).

He went back to check on the children’s progress in preparing for school.

I appeared in the doorway to tell him that I was leaving for work. He looked up and joked, “Do you want a medal?” Really? After 15 years you’d think he’d better understand how close he walks to the edge.

School’s Back in Session

Living in a small town, it is very evident when college resumes each fall. We get an over-abundance of fearless 18-21 year-olds that walk out into traffic on the state hiway in town because they know we have to stop for them. They move in herds and you have to add an additional 5 minutes to compensate for the crossing of the college students. Five minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it really only takes about 10 minutes to drive across town.

Saturday, the girls and I went to the convenience store and saw some of those same suicidal students participating in the activities available on campus during these first few weekends. We pulled up to see a young man sporting a purple flowered bicycle helmet donning an oversized tricycle with big ape-hanger handlebars. Before we can make it out of the Pilot, four students wearing a pair of GINORMOUS tighty-whities came flying out of the convenience store. All four of them were in the one pair of underwear. I’m not even kidding. Then they all ran off back across the hiway (not in the cross-walk either) and the guy on the tricycle peddled as fast as he could without tipping over just to keep up with them.

It was funny and I didn’t have my camera with me :(

Batman Returns!

Last week Thursday (while my company was experiencing technical difficulties with a software upgrade), I took the afternoon off to tackle the mess that my basement had become. A great majority of the issue was clothing. The clothes my family had outgrown that needed to be washed, sorted, and taken to the second-hand store. As I sorted, I came across a few costumes from Halloweens past. Wyn has a 4 year-old I knew would love to have these treasures in her dress up bin.

When I arrived at Wyn’s house, costumes in hand, she returned the favor and handed me a boys size 6 green Batman t-shirt. She had found it while shopping one day and purchased it for her frusband. (This is how she refers to to Jackson since he saved her that drizzly July night.)

I came home, laid it on his pillow, and forgot all about it.

Later that night, when Jack and I retired to our room for our nightly tv viewing routine, he picked the tiny shirt up and held it up to his chest. He asked “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Wear it, silly.” This was the same answer I had given Wyn’s husband (also known as my frusband, see it’s catching on) when he asked me what Jack was going to do with the little article of clothing.

Next thing I know, my husband of 15 years had slipped his new gift over his head and managed to get his arms in the holes. He was trying feverishly to get the tiny t-shirt rolled down over his 37 year-old belly. He succeeded in getting it down his chest, just above his tummy when I fell off the bed from laughing so hard!

As I struggled to get to my feet and make a dash for my camera, #1 walked in, screamed in horror, and ran back out of our room. (Discussion Topic #403 for the therapist she’s sure to need). I then proceeded to snap two pictures as he posed - rubbing his hairy belly sticking out the bottom of the shirt, striking the body-builder pose showing off his guns. Oh, my gosh, I’m not even sure there are words to describe exactly how funny this entire episode was. I was able to snap two pictures amidst the chaos.

In the end, I had to help him peel the little green shirt off his body. Then I emailed pics to Wyn as a special little thank-you. These pics will NOT be making an appearance on my blog as I love my husband and want to remain married. Please just know that a man who is willing to put on a tiny t-shirt, let you take pictures, and laugh with you the entire time is a man you should hang on tight to, because they are few and far between and this one is MINE.

A Few Clarifications

Okay, so per some feedback I’ve received (not in my comment section, AHEM, but whatever), I feel like I owe some of my readers/silent stalkers some clarification on my last post.

Eric Bana

  is a (newer) movie star (“Black Hawk Down”, “Hulk”, “The Other Boleyn Girl”, and “Star Trek” – I won’t hold that against him) whom my friend, Wyn, has fallen in love with while watching him on various late night shows promoting his most recent films. We enjoyed him recently in “The Time Traveler’s Wife”. A MUCH better movie than “Julie & Julia”. I don’t care what you thought, I won’t change my feelings regarding the lack of action in that flick.

If you remember, back in April, Wyn called me to profess her love affair with my rotary cutter. It is this relationship with the rotary cutter that is in jeopardy now that she has discovered she has unexpectedly fallen in love with Eric Bana.

As for my Farm Town addiction – this is NOT a fictional farm. It is a VIRTUAL farm. It has crops, animals, a house, and even a play set for the kids. Addictions are real and I’m trying to deal with this one.

Any future questions or concerns will be addressed (in a less than timely manner – I’m BUSY!). In all seriousness, I’ll try to get back to blogging more frequently.

I Haven’t Forgot You

Okay, I’m not even gonna’ lie. I’ve been neglecting my blog. Why, you ask yourselves. Why would I leave you guys hanging? One word.

I’m completely addicted this Facebook application. I spend every spare minute playing this ridiculous game, plowing, planting, harvesting, working, upgrading my farm. It’s crazy. I can’t believe how much of my life it has consumed over the last week and a half. When I’m not playing it, I’m thinking about it, I’m dreaming about it, I’m discussing it with my fellow farmers. I’m a little, okay, a LOT embarrassed about my infatuation.

In an attempt to redefine one of my favorite pastimes, I went to a movie with Wyn today. We endured “Julie & Julia”. I’m not going to spoil it for anyone out there, but please consider yourself warned – about an hour and forty-five minutes into it, Wyn and I were talking amongst ourselves. I’m pretty sure a day in the life of my dog (who is quite lazy) has more action that this movie. It wasn’t a horrible movie (it wasn’t “The Ugly Truth” or anything), but quite possibly not worth the $6.50 I paid for it.

What I did learn throughout the course of this outing…

Wyn is cheating.

That’s right you heard me. CHEATING.

She has accidentally fallen in love with Eric Bana. It came on suddenly and caught her much by surprise. I’m not sure how she’s going to break the news to the rotary cutter she’s been seeing for the past several months.

Gone Batty (Part 2)

When we pulled in to the driveway of Wyn’s Cape Cod style house you could have never guessed the turmoil going on inside. The lights let off a soft yellow glow, the front porch light was one awaiting our arrival, and it was drizzling ever-so-softly one of those summer rains.

We walked in the front door, removed our shoes, and Jack got right to work. He had grabbed a little flashlight before we left (the only tool a REAL bat-hunter needs apparently) and without a word started peering behind wall-hangings and large pieces of furniture.

Wyn frantically reenacted the entire episode that had gone on earlier. She was even scuttling around the living room with the blanket over her head and swinging things around to give Jack the full-flavor of what it was like and to ensure him that she had done everything she could before calling him. He went on about his hunt.

I sat down on the edge of the sofa to avoid getting in the way. Plus I figured this was a good seat to make a straight bee-line for the door at the first inclination that the winged rodent was still in the house.

Jack made his way through the kitchen, dining room, and the living room. He returned to ask questions like “Was the basement door open?”

He disappeared into the basement.

Wyn and I remained in the living room. I tried to calm her down, but I’m really not much help. Seriously, I would have moved out and let the bat have my home.

Jack returned and informed Wyn that he didn’t find anything. He said he looked for holes near the foundation where it could have come in from. He said there was one small hole (perhaps near the furnace), but he didn’t think it was big enough.

**FUN BAT FACT #1 – Bats can enter your homes through openings as small as a quarter.

Wyn seemed a bit surprised (and more than a little disgusted) that there was any type of opening in her basement where things could come and go as they pleased.

**FUN BAT FACT #2 – It takes Wyn less than 24 hours to fill ANY holes in her foundation after a bat attack.

Jack then asked if the bathroom or any of the bedroom doors were open at the time of “the incident”. It turns out that the only door down the hall the bat could have escaped to was Wyn’s bedroom (where her three year-old was sleeping soundly).

Jack retreated down the hall.

Wyn was all, “You don’t think it went in there with my daughter, do you?” “Seriously, how gross would it be if it was in there!”

Jack walks back into the living room. “Do you have any old towel?”

“WHAT?! Seriously?! Did you find it?!”

Wyn was horrified. I hid my head under my arms (like that would solve anything).

Jack remained calm (and a little annoyed). “Yes, I found it. Do you have an old towel?”

“WHERE IS IT?! You didn’t find it on my kid?!”

“No. It’s not on your kid. It’s behind the curtain on the window. Now, do you have an old towel?”

Wyn got up and handed him something. I’m not really sure. I think it was a towel. Or maybe she just pointed Jack in the direction of the towel. I really wasn’t paying attention as I was estimating the exact amount of time it would take me to leave my seat and make it back to the truck.

Jack retreated to the bedroom. We hear him moving things. Wyn and I look at each other with a look of “Holy CRAP!” in your eyes. Then nothing.

“What do you think is going on back there?”

“I dunno.”

More silence.

THEN, we hear this shrill quick chirping noise that seemed to last FOREVER! Wyn and I look at each other mortified and then both duck – me under my arms again, Wyn under the trusty blanket she hasn’t let out of her grips since the first sighting.

**FUN BAT FACT #3 – Bats let out that shrill chirping noise to warn other bats of the impending danger.

More shuffling noises.

More silence.

I kept my eyes locked on Wyn who had her eyes locked on the doorway behind me. Suddenly, they widened and I froze. Jack came walking in the room holding the towel and walked over to the door where he was going to release the intruder back into the wild. Apparently he thought it was going to be complete acceptable to throw open the front door and let it fly to freedom.

“WAIT! NO! Please take it over to the neighbors or over to the park. PLEASE don’t let it go in my yard.”

“Are you serious?”

“COMPLETELY! PLEASE!”

Jack looks out into the darkness that’s still drizzling. He’s still holding this live animal and trying to slip his shoes on. Keep in mind, neither Wyn nor I jump up at this point to offer him a hand. He successfully gets his shoes on and disappears into the night.

“I can’t believe it was in there with my kid. Am I a bad mom if I leave here in there and sleep out here tonight?”

Jack returns.

“Don’t worry. I walked it to the other side of the park and let it go. It flew off to the north.”

“I take back all the mean things I ever said about you. UH PICK UP THAT TOWEL AND TAKE IT WITH YOU! DON’T LEAVE IT THERE. PICK IT UP!”

“It’s just a towel. Throw it in the washing machine. It’s perfectly fine.”

“NO. You asked me for an old towel. I gave you an old towel. I don’t want it back. Throw it away or take it with you, but I don’t want it in my house!”

Jack has known Wyn long enough to know not to argue. It was also 11:30 and he just wanted to go home and go back to bed. He snatched the towel up off the floor and looked at me as if to say “Let’s go”.

“Seriously, thanks, soooo much. You really don’t know how much I appreciate this! Lance owes you BIG time.”

Jack threw the bat towel in the back of Lance’s truck and with a smirk on his face we headed home.

I don’t think Jack will EVER understand us, but at least he’s willing to humor us. Do you think he knew we were a two-for-one deal?

You might be a member of my family if…

your semi-juvenile delinquent sons goes away to school, moves back in with your mother (who lives RIGHT next door), and shoots fireworks at your house with his friends!

AND

two weeks later it’s still sticking out of your house!

 

AND

then someone crawls up there, not to remove it from your siding, but to snap pictures, and do this!

I wonder if the trailer park neighbors think we’re white trash.

Gone Batty (Part 1)

So one evening while the two little ones were spending quality time with the MN state bird (the mosquito) and #1 was camping with the neighbors, Jack and I were enjoying some peaceful time home alone, sleeping. When the phone rang. Still slightly conscious I hollered at my hubby who had just entered the first 10 minutes of REM sleep (or is it non-REM sleep? I really did pay too much for that psychology class I slept through). I was sure it was my sister calling from and ER (my kids are more accident-prone than normal children), or worse yet, someone had surely died. Who calls at 11 o’clock with good news?

He groggily tossed the phone at me.

“Hello?”

“Tina, I’m freaking out and I don’t know what to do!”

“Wyn?”

“I thought there was a bird in my house, but it may have been a bat. It’s probably a bat, but I’m going with bird so I don’t totally flip out. I tried to prop open the door and chase it out of the house with  the broom, but I had a blanket over my head and didn’t actually see it leave the house. I’ve checked everywhere, twice, and can’t find anything, but I’m totally freaked out it’s still in my house. Lance is gone fishing. What should I do?”

“Leave. Move out.” (Helpful, right?)

“Would Jack come over and see if he can find it? Seriously, I’m not going to be able to sleep. I was going to go get one of the neighbors, but all their lights are off. I don’t want to wake them. Will Jack come over? I would REALLY appreciate it.”

Now, my friend, Wyn, has always been this level-headed strong woman. She lived by herself long enough to deal with all sorts of things I’ve never had to. She can re-glaze a storm window and isn’t afraid to tackle most home improvement projects on her own. However, the sheer terror in her voice made it completely obvious that she was not kidding.

So, I took my life in my own hands…

“Hey, Jack, you want to go bat hunting at Wyn’s?”

“WHAT?! NOW?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

I knew he wouldn’t be crazy about being woken for such a “frivolous” girl issue. He would have rolled over and gone back to sleep if it were his house (and I wasn’t home because I guarantee you I would have been plastered all over his head until he got up and dealt with it and then I would have spent the next 3 nights at the local hotel).

He got out of bed (more than reluctantly) and put his shoes on.

“Do you want me to come?”

“WANT you to come? No, I can do this all by myself. If YOU want to come, get your shoes on and get in the truck.”

As freaked out as I was by the idea of a flying rodent, there was no way I was going to miss out on an opportunity to see Wyn at her finest!

The 3 mile drive to her house was quiet. It was rainy and Jack was tired. I’ve known him long enough to keep my mouth shut even though all I wanted to do was freak out!

Who’s Big Chicken?

I sent the two little ones to my sister’s house in Minnesota for a week. While they were visiting they went up to the cabin near the boundary waters to spend some time with Mother Nature.

Along with getting to participate in an outhouse beautification project (yes, I said outhouse – and I will not be visiting the cabin any time in the near future),

dressing up in festive 4th of July costumes and parading around town (Teresa, Curt, Henry, and the girls took 2nd place – #2 got her grubs on that medallion and wasn’t giving it up!),

and spending #3’s 9th birthday away from her parents,

my children have come home with a new vocabulary.

I don’t mean that in a negative way, but #1 has started to pick up on it.

Here’s what I’m dealing with..

“I’m not sayin’. I’m just sayin’. Ya’ know what I’m sayin’?”

“I hear ya’ cluckin’, Big Chicken!”

Any ideas how many times one can hear that in the course of a day before she starts researching boarding school options? Answer: 537

I love my sister to death. I just hope she’s prepared for retaliation when she sends the Henster to Camp Cronin over Christmas break this year. (Consider yourself warned!)

‘Course I’m Wearing Bottoms!

(This one’s for you, Wanna!)

I hate swimsuit season! I love being at the beach. I love swimming in a pool, not a disgusting lake with fish and nasty, a pool. But I do NOT like being in a swimming suit.

I dread the very idea of getting into a swimming suit. What if I run into people I know? What if I see people I don’t know? What if I look worse in this contraption than I think? I know I’m not a “skinny bitch” and I feel bad for anyone that has to endure the sight of my overly-white body crammed into a small spandex  outfit. I feel your pain. I shower. I know what it looks like. I’m sorry.

That being said, there are people out there that aren’t sorry, or at least they don’t seem sorry. Part of me wishes I could be one of those no-holds-barred kind of girls that puts it all out there, is perfectly content, and doesn’t care what other people think. Then there’s the part of me that thinks, “Seriously?! You left the house in that?! What were you thinking? Don’t you own a mirror? Don’t you have any dignity?”

Why do the manufacturers of swimming suits make bikini’s in sizes over an 8? Once you reach double-digits no one wants to see that much skin unless they’re interested in sleeping with you. And I, my friend, am not interested in sleeping with you! Do us all a favor and cover it up and I’ll do the same in return!

Not Another Face Paint Incident

As we prepare for another RiseFest (held Saturday, June 20th in Orange City – I’ll expect all of you there), I was running down the list of activities at the Kids Zone to ensure we were ready to go next weekend. My eyes grazed the list and then stopped. Face paint. Did I see a note saying we were using acrylic face paint? Is that a good idea? Everything I read about acrylic paint suggests that you use it on ceramics and wood. Are we sure this is safe to use as face paint?

The rest of my team assures me that it will be fine. They discuss the quantity you would have to use before it becomes a toxicity issue.

Poisoning the children?! Seriously?! I hadn’t even thought about that. GREAT!

No, where my concerns lie are with the staining. You know, the face paints that don’t wash off.

When #1 turned 5 we invited her entire preschool class (one boy amongst a group of girls) out to the house for a party. We did it right. We did a jungle theme and ordered take home glasses, prizes for the planned games, balloons, face paint, the whole nine yards. I ordered these fabulous face paint markers. I thought it was a brilliant idea. It would make coloring on their small faces easier and no clean up! A mother must have invented these things.

As I drew balloons, butterflies and flowers on the youngsters faces, my husband took the liberty to be a bit more creative. He drew goatees, curly handlebar mustaches, and little German ‘staches on the little girls. Funny, right?

Even funnier when the party was over and we discovered that the face paint left stains on the kids’ faces. A father must have invented these horrible disfiguring instruments. Seriously?! Face Paints? They should have more aptly named them Face Stains! There are a few mothers I still can’t look in the eye to this day.

Please assure me that the acrylic paints won’t semi-permanently disfigure the faces of the kiddos at RiseFest. I can’t endure another incident.

The Big Tootsie Brawl

Sunday night I was spending quality time with my family. A few of my family members are cuter than others.

Seriously, check these two out. God just doesn’t make them much cuter than this!

The cutest thing about them is their sheer inability to hide their true feelings towards each other. Their emotion is out there for everyone to see. They don’t care what you think, they’re both full of attitude, know what they want, and make no apologies for that.

The one in the white (we’ll call her ‘S’), on this particular evening, was toting around a container of Tootsie Rolls. These were not her Tootsie Rolls, but they were in her possession, so I guess technically they were hers (9/10th’s is possession by law). S was very kindly handing out Tootsie Rolls to the adults that requested them.

The one in the green (we’ll call her ‘D’) decided she would like a Tootsie Roll and asked S quite politely for one, “I have a Tootsie Roll, peese.” (More of a statement than a question).

“NO!” was the reply from S.

“Peese…” begged D and started to advance.

“NO!” S repeated as she started to make a run for it.

D was determined and took off after her. She got S in a corner, went in for the steal and bellared “GIMME A TOOTSIE!”. She wasn’t messing around and if I was a betting woman (which you all know I’m not, right), I’d have put my money down on D. I’ve been told she packs quite a punch – her older sister can attest to that (but she looks so cute and innocent!).

At this point the mothers interfered (much to my dismay) and made me fork over one of the three Tootsies I’d confiscated from S before all the turmoil began. Oh how I wish I was still three and could protest, take my Tootsie loot, and head for the door, but no, I had to share.

When did we lose that carefree spirit of letting it all hang out and do what isn’t socially acceptable?

Only minutes after the big brawl that nearly left one blind and bloody, they reconciled and made nice.

Oh to be 3 again. Life was so much simpler!

Nothing About this is Normal

There is so much about my world that is not normal.

Last week I used the grill. I haven’t had the opportunity to use the grill since last summer.

I don’t remember it being held together with tape.

I don’t think it was like this when we bought it (about 10 years ago).

What do the propane exchange people think about this?

I’m not sure anything about our grill is normal, but I certainly know what Jack will be getting for Father’s Day this year!

While I was trying to hold the grill together and NOT burn the hamburgers, I couldn’t help but be annoyed by the abnormal number of maple seeds we have all over our driveway and the space between our garages.

We’ve cleaned them up once already. How can one maple tree produce this many seeds?

#2 & #3 tried to nurse two birds back to health in a box in our garage. I assured them that this was NOT normal. They bought nightcrawlers to feed them. They took them out of their box for exercise time. They even turned on a heater to keep them from shaking. When the birds did finally kick the bucket my abnormal children took it upon themselves to bury them in our front yard (not our backyard, mind you, our front yard!).

Right next to our mailbox.

Do you know what happens when you don’t bury a bird deep enough in the soil in your front yard?

This is what happens. And, this, my friends, is NOT normal.

Should we take bets on how long it takes before the mailman refuses to deliver our mail?

And last but not least…

There is NOTHING normal about the way our dog (Phat Lucy) relaxes in our front yard.

Oh, what the neighbors must think!

This May Be the Summer Vacation that Does Me In!

So we’re on day two of the girls’ summer vacation and I’m already eager for them to go back to school. I’ve been paged at the office for a water balloon inquiry. I’ve been emailed by one of the administrative assistants to call #2 ASAP for an overnight guest request. I’ve been interrupted roughly 53 times by phone calls and instant messages for various tattles, misbehaviors, and random thoughts that popped into their heads that simply couldn’t wait. We’ve had discussions about the nutritional value of meals consumed during the day. We’ve had lectures about respect and the chore list. We’ve fielded innumerable requests for pool passes to a pool that is currently broken. I’m sure we’ve encountered at least one overdue fine at the library for the tardy return of a movie. AND they’ve been bored on a half a dozen occasions.

Seriously?! Is this what the entire summer is going to be like? I started filling out the paperwork for summer camps and am looking into the possibilities of renting them out for weeks at a time to unsuspecting newlyweds that need a life lesson or twelve. Any takers? Anyone feeling the baby itch and want to take a test drive? I’ve got something that will cure that!

It’s hard to believe that these used to be the little angels I bragged about being so well behaved. I did that, right? Perhaps I only dreamed about doing that. Whatever the case, when a co-worker brought in her little guy, I couldn’t help but think, “Just wait. One day he’ll grow up and be a MUCH bigger pain than you ever dreamed he could be. Your turn’s coming.” In the meantime, I had a lot of fun entertaining him and letting him play with the toys I keep in my drawer at the office.

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Okay, so I have girls, but he LOVED the tiara! And don’t let that full head of hair fool you, he’s only 15 months old and doesn’t really know that he shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as he did!

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

Ok, so I know I told you I was embarking on a journey to Oklahoma over Mother’s Day weekend. As it turns out we were really going to Kansas - as far south as one can get in Kansas without being in Oklahoma, but Kansas none-the-less. My mother, my oldest sister, and I arrived on Saturday afternoon after a forty-five minute scenic detour that I get to shoulder all the blame for. I’m not admitting it’s my fault, but it seemed to be the major consensus of the group that because I was behind the wheel it was DEFINITELY my fault. If you ever get the chance to take a scenic detour through Kansas, don’t. It really isn’t all that scenic.

We quickly checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, waited for Mom to use the bathroom (with Mom there is ALWAYS lots of waiting for her to use the bathroom – I think she has a medical condition. Seriously.), and headed off to casino #1. Much to my dismay this was not the casino that was home to my much-sought-after Ebay machine. So, I waited patiently while everyone played their favorite slot machines. My sister and I found we had the most fun when playing our machines as a team. For two people who don’t particularly care for one another, this was as much fun as we would have all weekend (losing money).

As the sun began to set and our tummies began to grumble we made a group decision to head back to the hotel, pick up some supper (at KFC, of course), and play some games. I had prepped for this trip to KFC by going to the Oprah website and using the KFC link to download free grilled chicken dinner coupons. As it turns out, this KFC was not honoring those coupons that day, but if I put my name on some random list they would send me a rain check to be used at a later date. Apparently, Oprah’s advertisement of this special caused some KFC’s to close their doors. Oh the power of Oprah!

Here’s a picture of my sister at KFC. She did NOT want me to take this picture and I was fairly certain she was going to take a swing at me. I won’t post the other one of her flipping me off (classy, right?).

Sunday would find us at casino #2. “Go to your left.” were my mother’s directions, and TA-DA there she was, in all her beauty, my beloved Ebay machine. I quickly grabbed my chair (as did my sister, my mother, and my aunt). We vowed to play this cash cow together. Here was where we’d make our millions. Oh, how I had waited for this day. I slipped my $20 into the bill slot and waited while the machine processed my deposit. I played the machine a bit more conservatively than my mother had instructed on my trip to Vegas. I wanted to make this experience last as long as I possibly could. Approximately 3 minutes passed and then it happened. I was out of money. NOOOOOO! How could my sweet Ebay machine take my money like that?! This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. How could she have treated me this way? I thought we had something special!

Well as it turns out that was how my entire weekend was to be – one aggravating experience after another. Like how after an entire day of gambling and losing money my sister and I tried to drown our sorrows in some Mother’s Day drinking only to find out you can’t by alcohol on Sundays in Kansas. Are you kidding me?!

Happy(?) Mother’s Day?

It’s official, I’ve lost my mind. What would possess me to volunteer to go on a road trip with my mother and my oldest sister over Mother’s Day?

I’ll tell you what would possess  me, my new-found addiction to that blasted eBay machine. I know my hairstylist said she didn’t have any luck at the eBay machine on her trip to Vegas last weekend, but I’m pretty certain it’s because she doesn’t have the relationship with it that I do. SO… I’ve agreed to embark on a journey with my family (not the sane ones, either) to fulfill my need to play the slot machine that calls my name in  the middle of the night.

Pray for me. Pray for them. Pray for my poor family left motherless on this Mother’s Day. How will they survive? Who will they feed cold soggy toast to in bed with a side of warm milk?

Perhaps upon my return I’ll find #1 really does love me again and realizes that she can’t live without me! A mom can hope, can’t she? I truly do miss the friend I lost during this teenage transformation.

Reason #285 Why She'll Need Therapy

When Jack and I signed up to chaperon the spring Jr. High dance, our 12 year-old was mortified. It could have been our incessant teasing that she would hardly know we were there - we would find a nice dark corner to make out all night long. She was certain we would be the end to any hope of a social life she dreamed of having. We egged her on saying that we would be the first parents ever kicked out of a middle school dance.

When the date of the big dance was finally announced she rejoiced as she realized her father would be out of town on business.

Me - "Now who will I make out with?!"

#1 - "I dunno. I guess you'll have to act like a normal person now."

Me - "Hmm, will your principal be there? I can make out with him."

#1 - "MOM! He's married!"

Me - "So. So am I."

#1 - "MOM!"

Well the dance came and went and I didn't even so much as make a move on her principal. She spent the night avoiding me and refusing to make eye contact. She stands a good six inches shorter than most of the middle school student body, so she could easily slink around the mass of dancing children virtually unnoticed by a mother. A mother MUCH less savy than I. I stood my ground and made it my mission to stalk that student body until I could make out the silhouette of my own offspring. Once I spotted her, she made eye contact, slouched down into the crowd and disappeared again. And so the evening went, spotting, hiding, spotting, hiding...

I remember when she used to think I was cool.

When her father returned from his business trip, I shared with him all the things I had been witness to during the dance - the parents who had been FORBIDDEN from going in to the gym (what parent lets a sixth grader FORBID them from doing anything?), the boys that were slow dancing together like a couple of goofs, the boy having a full-on body spaz in the middle of the floor while others gathered in a circle to cheer him on, and the songs I, myself, had danced to at my middle school dance being played here again in 2009.

We decided to treat the girls to a movie that evening Jack returned. He agreed to see whatever movie the girls wanted to see. And so we endured two hours we'll never get back as we sat through "17 Again". The two younger ones wanted to soak in as much ZACH EFRON as they could.

(you have to "sing" when you say it like Jack and I - the girls hate it!) So they sat as close to the screen as they could. #1 found that totally juvenile and was so disgusted with their behavior, she opted to sit near the top with her father and I.

The two little ones spilled their popcorn, thought we couldn't see them from where we were at, crawled back over to the spill spot, and ate their popcorn off the floor. #1 was MORTIFIED. Jack and I figured that which did not kill them would only make them sick for a little while :)

Then it happened.

The theater began to fill up with middle school students. A group of eighth grade boys sat down directly behind us and Jack (not knowing any of them) decided to strike up a conversation.

Jack - "Hey, guys, how's it going?"

(#1 slides down in her seat.)

boys - "Great." "Good." "Aight."

Jack - "Did you guys go to the dance last night?"

(#1 slinks down further along with a "DAD!")

boys - "Yeah." "Yeah." "Yeah."

Jack - "Did you have fun?"

boys - "Yeah." "Yeah." "Yeah."

Jack - "You weren't those guys dancing with each other, were you?"

boys - "No." "Nope." "Not me. "Which time?"

Jack - "Dude! It was you. Man, that's just not right!"

(#1 was nearly on the floor and praying for the Lord to come take her home!)

Jack - "Hey, you guys don't mind if we make out during the movie, do you?"

#1 - "DAD!! STOP!!! OH MY GOSH!!!"

boys - "Nope. Go for it."

I took this opportunity to remind her that she could go sit down front and center with her sisters who were just finishing "cleaning up" their popcorn mess.

I'm just glad that when she's forking over all that money for professional help she'll have something legitimate to talk about!

My Vegas Scooter

...as promised... more about the scooter!

Here's a friendly tip. When planning a trip to Las Vegas PACK SOME GOOD WALKING SHOES! Oh, how I wish someone would have offered me this little gem of advice. But, no, instead I packed cute shoes that would show off my freshly manicured toes since I was going somewhere nice enough to finally breakout my sandals!

Day One: Jack, Sharla, Rob, and I head out for a look around Sin City. We walked about a half a mile down the strip and back before I noticed that I has a slight twinge of pain in my left foot. Determined not to let it slow me down, I suggested we stop for lunch. This was sure to give my foot amuch needed break so we could be on our way again for the afternoon. After lunch we parted ways with Rob and Sharla and headed just a little bit further down the strip. By the time we reached M&M World, I was gimping around like someone with a serious problem. Jack decided it was time to head back to our room so I could rest my foot. I took a nice, hot, long bath in the gi-normous garden tub we had in our room. A half an hour later I still could not put much pressure on my foot without wanting to cry out in pain. We walked a bit more that evening while I sported Jack's running shoes which are about a size too big. Certainly a night's rest would be good for my ailment.

Day Two: The next morning I could not walk! What the crap?! How was I going to take in all the sights maimed like this? How was I going to stay in my hotel room all day with only 4 channels to watch? (by the way - they really don't want to give you any reason to spend time in your room in Vegas, so they give you crap TV so you'll head back down to the casino). After breakfast we headed (I hobbled) to a shop in the mall where I could buy some IcyHot - that's right, IcyHot. I rubbed it in on my foot, but it didn't help for longer than 3 minutes (but I smelled fantastic!). So it was off to the bell desk to inquire about what kind of assistance I could rent to help me survive the rest of my vacation. They only solutions available were a wheelchair (ABSOLUTELY NOT!) or an electric scooter (SERIOUSLY?!). Jack jumped all over that scooter idea and the bell hop disappeared and drove one around. I was mortified. It was official, I was about to embark on day 2 of my vacation looking like one of those 400 pound people who's knees buckle at the sheer weight they try to support. I cried. Jack laughed.

Rob has muscular dystrophy so I wasn't alone in my plight to tool around Vegas in my granny scooter.

We spent the day banging into each other, racing, and laughing! I even felt bad for Jack and Sharla having to walk all that way and open doors for us and stuff!

Just a couple of fact about Las Vegas:

1. They apparently do not have an open container law.
2. You can buy Margaritas by the yard in a bong container.
3. They do not frown on drinking while driving a scooter down the sidewalk.
4. Drinking at 10:00am is socially acceptable.
5. People are very understanding if you ACCIDENTALLY run into them while you're on a scooter (even if you've been drinking).
6. Anyone can rent a scooter for $40!

Funniest part of our entire trip (just ask Sharla, I think she nearly peed her pants)...

It is not easy (or recommended) to maneuver a 3-point turn in an elevator on a scooter after a drink at 10:00 in the morning without giving yourself whiplash at least twice!

I'm not really sure what happened, but I remember hitting the wall and then backing up and taking another run at it full speed and hitting so hard I nearly flipped over the handle bars. I haven't seen my chiropractor yet because I'm simply not sure how I'm going to explain it to him.

I'm Obsessed with Ebay

Las Vegas has changed me. I’m not talking about the Margaritas at 10:00am, the hooker trading cards laying all over the ground, the young girls dancing on tables in next-to nothing.

Oh, no, there is an Ebay slot machine that haunts my dreams and every waking thought. Here’s how I met my new obsession…

Before I left on my Vegas vacation, my mother left me an envelope with the words, “Have fun and play one for me and Mom.” My grandmother, who passed away last November, was an avid slot machine addict. She made weekly (if not daily) trips to the boat to get her fix. My mother, who at first I believe was just humoring her mother, was bitten by the gambling bug. Both of these women had been blessed by the innate ability to win. My mother gave me the instructions she assured me would help my odds of winning while in Sin City.

On our first day out I sat down at a machine I had seen my own mother sit at while on a trip to the boat. This decision proved to be a wise one. I successfully won ¾ the amount I had to play. I proudly strutted up to my husband and handed him my winnings. Pleased with myself I disappeared back into the casino with my initial bet still in my hand. The casino gods were not as kind to me on my second outing. Still ahead of the game, I decided to leave it alone for the day.

On our second day I wandered around the casino a bit dropping a few dollars here and there into several machines. I then pulled my husband over to a machine hooked up to a gigantic Wheel of Fortune wheel. We sat down on the seat made for two and I tried to explain to him the finer points of playing a slot machine (as my mother had instructed). I told him to channel grandma (as this was her favorite game show) and pushed the button. With that one push we got the bonus spin and the gigantic wheel started to spin. It stopped and we realized we had one $200. We cashed out and walked away happy as two peas in a pod.

We spent the greater part of our Vegas vacation NOT gambling away our spoils. On Saturday, we were trying to stay in our resort because my foot was throbbing and I had to return my scooter (that’s for another post), so we hung out at the casino all afternoon. We played a little here and there but didn’t have any more real luck. With 20 cents left on a ticket we decided that we had played for mom and won, we had played for grandma and won, perhaps we should take our last 20 cents and play for Jesus. I had spotted a few Noah’s Ark machines and was certain that God wanted us to make it big so we could do His work. That was NOT the case. Apparently God really does not like it when you gamble. Or perhaps he was angry that I only gave him 20 cents, but that is neither here nor there.

We had decided to meet our friends at 4:00 to head to the airport. We had been assured that we should plan to arrive at McCarran airport at least 2 hours before our flight to make it through security. We had 10 minutes left and I begged my hubby to accompany me over to this huge Ebay monitor up on a wall above a few machines. These machines were amazing. They were tied together in a manner that when one person won bonus spins (the only true way to win at these machines) all five machines got to partake in the bonus spin. I stood there in awe of a woman who was dominating this game. I felt like I was in a drunken stupor as I watched. I NEEDED to play this game. As Jack and I pulled the last remaining bills out of our pockets a couple swooped in and sat in the last two spots at my beloved machine. I stood there in shock, hoping, praying that one of them would run out of money and get up. Time was running out. We had to get going. We had to meet our friends. But I just couldn’t walk away from this gold mine. Jack assured me I could. And wouldn’t you know it, we did.

We arrived at McCarran airport 2 ½ hours early only to find out that our flight was going to be 40 minutes late. NOOOOOO! The taxi ride had only cost us $11.50. Perhaps I could make it back to the casino to play the Ebay machine and be back in time. If I didn’t win any money I wouldn’t have enough to get back to the airport, but that certainly was NOT going to be the case. How could I NOT win? As I sat in the airport trying to keep my mind off this insane desire to bust back through security, I couldn’t help but pray that they had overbooked our flight. I would TOTALLY take a bump. There’s no way Jack could turn down the offer they were making for the San Diego flight ($200 cash and round trip tickets). We could go back to the casino, see the Miss USA dress rehearsal, and I could make sweet love to the Ebay machine. It had to be! But alas, it wasn’t. I boarded the plane with a pit in my stomach. I have been able to think about little else. Monday morning I woke up and my first thought was the Ebay machine. Oh, how I longed to be sitting in front of it.


As the days go by, it gets easier to be apart. I also rest easy in knowing that there are two of these Ebay beauties in Council Bluffs a mere 2 hours from where we live. It’s amazing what you kind find on the internet. Now I just have to find an excuse to go there and play!

I Understand If You Can't Be My Friend After This...

I received a phone call from my bff, Wyn, this morning.

No light-hearted foreplay, just cut right to the chase.

(Wyn) "I have to tell you something. I've been trying to tell you for a while now, but I haven't been able to find the words. You're gonna be really mad."

(Me) "Okay...?"

(Wyn) "I understand if you can't be my friend after I tell you this, but I'm really sorry. This is really hard."

(Me) "Oh my gosh, just say it. It will be okay."

(Wyn) "I think I'm in love with...

(big dramatic pause)

your rotary cutter and mat."

What a dork! I lent her these crafty tools a few weeks back and had totally forgot about them. I only use them once every six months (Dutch costumes in May and Halloween costumes in October). Seriously?! I nearly had a heart attack.

(Wyn) "It's just the other day I was using it and proclaiming my love to it and it returned my love."

In a total subject change we found ourselves reminiscing about the dear beloved Honda Accords we both drove in a previous life.

By the end of the conversation we were daydreaming about Wyn cruising around in a early 90's Honda Accord EX with my rotary cutter and mat in the passenger seat. The sunroof is open and REO Speedwagon is heard blaring from the radio. "I just can't fight this feeling anymore. I forgotten what I started fighting for."

I love Wyn. I hope she never changes!