I’m Too Old for This!

Last night, just as I was getting ready to go to bed, the tornado sirens went off. It was 11:45pm. I woke my husband who had been sleeping since about 10:00. I grabbed my laptop (battery full) and headed to the living room to get #3 who had fallen asleep on the couch. As we head for the basement, my semi-unstable husband headed for the front door. What is it about men that send them flying outside to see the storm when the county officials sound warning sirens indicating you should take cover?

In the basement #1 was asleep in her bed and #2 was sleeping on the floor of the family room. Keep in mind that the basement remodel is NEARLY complete, so the soft carpet, the warm couch, and the flat screen TV all make weathering a storm pleasant. I laid #3 to sleep on the floor next to her big sister, waited for the all-clear, and headed upstairs to bed. I listened intently as the sump pump kicked on three times before I let the storm lull me to sleep.

At 3:00am #2 appeared in our room with a “Why is the carpet all wet?” I got up and headed to the basement to find out how bad it was and why the sump pump wasn’t doing it’s part. With only a slightly delayed response, Jackson came flying down the stairs and ripped the carpet remnant out of the sump pump closet. Upon his attack, the sump pump kicked on as if he had woken it up. We spent the next hour retrieving the shop vac from the garage, moving things out of the path of the stream meandering around under our carpet, and sucking up as much water as possible. The two little ones had retreated upstairs, but #1 remained steadfast in her bed just feet away from the roaring vacuum.

At 4:00am we were mostly satisfied that we had gotten what we could. We set up the fan and dragged the vac to the utility room assuming we were not done utilizing it’s services. Upon our retreat I stepped in a squishy spot outside the bathroom. I turned on the light and discovered a whole ‘nother issue. We spent the next hour trying to figure out where, under the tile, this puddle was going and how to best head it off. We found an ingenious way to prop the shop vac up to suck up the water before it bled all over the place and reeked havoc on our carpet.

At 5:00am I emailed my boss and informed him that I fully planned on sleeping through my 6:20 alarm. Jackson opted to stay up and monitor the pump and empty the shop vac as it filled.

At 7:30am we reversed roles, well kinda. He prepared to go to work and I dragged my butt out of bed to take over water duty.

At 7:50am I called contractors to find out what our options were. As it turns out, the guy that can help us is sick!

At 8:10am I heard the shop vac scream. It sent me flying down the basement stairs. I flung open the bathroom door to find a plume of smoke billowing from the motor. I unplugged it just in time to hear the orchestra of smoke alarms wake anyone that may have still been attempting to sleep in the house.

At 8:30am I called the plumber to find out what our other options were for trying to stay on top of this water.

At 9:00am I purchased a new shop vac. Returned home, assembled it, and resumed my lifeguard duties. I tried to work off and on while keeping a sharp eye on all things water and smoke related.

At 11:30am I called Jackson, gave him the indoor pool update and tagged out. As much as I wanted to stay in play in the giant puddle that is our basement (can you sense the sarcasm), I had meetings I had to attend at the office.

At 8:00pm I returned home only to find nothing had changed! The water is still trying to find it’s way to the surface or hiding deep beneath the not-yet-paid for floor covering. I took over guardian of the flood gates and Jackson retreated to the surface for a much-needed shower and snack.

It’s now 10:00pm and I’m not sure how long this can continue to go one, but as the family-designated night owl, I get the first shift. I truly hope God knows I am too old for this and if he wants me to start constructing an ark, he’s going to have to come right out and tell me.

Did You Get Some Sun?

Yesterday I spent exactly two and a half hours watching #1 play a double-header in softball. Nearly 15 minutes into this outing I felt it was in my best interest to cover my fair freckled skin in SPF 50. I made my way to #1’s duffle bag and retrieved the bottle I had purchased for her just weeks before. I sprayed myself from head to toe and headed back to my seat.

Just hours later, my inability to EVENLY distribute sun screen became painfully apparent. One would think by the time one has celebrated 9 anniversaries of her 28th birthday, one would be better skilled in this area – it’s not like this was my first encounter with sun screen. Somehow I had a red strip on each of my legs, red bands on the tops of my arm, a nice red triangle where the collar of shirt lay, and a bright red nose. Seriously, it looks as if I put sun screen on my hands, rubbed my cheeks, and called it good.

It’s crazy embarrassing, but even more annoying are the people that continue to approach me with, “Oh, did you get some sun?” So, this post is for you!

Here are the things I’ve decided to use as a reply to this ridiculous question.

1. Oh, no, I was smelling my burner and lingered a bit too long.
2. This is what happens when your meth lab blows up.
3. What?! Oh, no! Not again.
4. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.
5. I was gearing up for my role as Ruldoph and the makeup stained my face.
6. Huh? There’s nothing wrong with my nose.
7. I’m promoting comic relief Red Nose Day.
8. Dang summer colds.
9. I was playing Got Your Nose with a psychotic 3 year old. She won!
10. You get what you get when you make out with Strawberry Shortcake.

I Didn’t Think So!

On Mother’s Day this year, my husband failed to deliver in spectacular fashion!

He had a speaking engagement in a neighboring town and invited me to join him. I declined. I opted to sleep in.

My little sister called and and asked me to go to our mother’s for a quick visit – it was Mother’s Day after all. I caved when she bribed me with strawberry shortcakes.

Ten minutes after I agreed to this obligation, Jackson called (last minute) and asked if I wanted to go out for lunch at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. I did, but I had committed to going to Mom’s.

He showed up at my Mom’s and laid on her couch. Around 12:30pm I suggested that we go to Sioux City, catch a movie with the girls, and do some much-needed shopping for #2’s band uniform (days until it was needed: 3.5). He announced he was NOT going to Sioux City. If that was something I wanted to do I should have planned it earlier. Seriously?! Whose day was this any way?

We went home. He, #2, and #3 in one car. Me and #1 in another car.

When we got home, he suggested we get #2’s band uniform at our local store. But did stop by that store when he drove right past it with #2 in his car? No!

I loaded #2 in the car, drove back to the store and helped her successfully secure exactly 1 of the 2 items she needed. Upon returning home he was polite enough to inquire as to our luck from the couch where he was enjoying a second viewing of Avatar – a movie he rented for himself even though I had made it clear that I had no desire to watch that flick AND it was Mother’s Day.

**Side Note (of great importance to the story) – I made it my New Year’s resolution to stop shopping at Wal-Mart. The place infuriates me, their business practices are that of a corporate bully, and their customer service is among the worst I’ve encountered.

It was then decided that I would drive #2 to Wal-Mart (in that neighboring town where Jack was that morning) where she had been given a gift card to find the other half of her uniform.

That’s right! On Mother’s Day I was going to be given the privilege (can you sense my sarcasm?) to break a new year’s resolution that, up until this point had been flawlessly maintained.

After Wal-Mart, I treated #2 to a concrete mixer and rented a movie from Red Box.

I returned home (uniform fully complete), went directly to my room to watch my movie, and spent the rest of the afternoon by myself – not really the way I had envisioned this day going.

Near the end of my chick-flick, my life partner invaded my alone-time and began commenting and asking questions regarding my movie. THEN he asked me what my plan was for supper.

I told him I didn’t have a plan, but I was NOT cooking. He seemed annoyed by that. I then suggested we eat at one of the 5 restaurants that are open on Sunday in our town. He said he would go pick something up if I told him what I wanted. I said I would prefer to go eat at the establishment. He voiced his dislike for that idea. I grabbed my purse and left. On my way out the door he asked if I wanted him to come. I didn’t reply.

After spending a good 40 minutes with my Lord trying to calm down, I went to Subway and ordered a pizza and ONE cookie – to go. I went home, sat at the kitchen table and ate my supper. Someone even had the audacity to ask me, “Did you just get one cookie?” to which I replied, “Yep.”

Boy, what a craptastic day!

THEN, and here’s where it almost becomes comical…

Five days before Father’s Day, the love of my life says, “Hey I was telling this guy at work today how awesome it would be if you planned to have our flat screen TV installed without me knowing for Father’s Day.”

Four days before Father’s Day, my one and only says, “Hey, wanna know what my other idea is for Father’s Day?” to which I replied, “Hey wanna talk about what I got for Mother’s Day?!”

(Dead Silence)

The Great Scooter Debacle

Precisely one month before #1 was to turn 14 (the legal age to drive a moped in this great state), I ventured to a nearby city in a neighboring state and bought a moped to surprise her with on her birthday. The dealer agreed to hold it for us until the big day arrived.

The weekend before the big day (which was to fall on Tuesday this year), I snuck out of the house with my husbands pickup to pick it up. The nice employees at the dealer helped me load the scooter in the back of the Honderosa and strap it down for the one hour drive home. Having never hauled anything this large or this expensive in my entire life, I cautiously ventured out on to the interstate. I kept one eye on the scooter (and the other eye on the scooter!) as I endured underpasses and the rattling the Honderosa was making scaring me half to death. Just as I got to the edge of town, it dawned on me. The large VIP writing on the front of the scooter is the PRECISE reason I spent an extra $50 to get the limited edition version. This was not the moped I purchased!

I turned my big rig around (which was kind of a large production in and of itself) and headed back to the dealer. Upon arriving, I found two nice ladies that had arrived to pick up the VIP scooter I had in the back of my vehicle. Strangely enough, they were from Jackson’s hometown and would be cruising through the big OC on their way home. They had agreed to stop in OC and exchange the scooters. They had called the house (understanding the covert mission I was on) and politely asked for Jackson’s cell phone number. They had contacted him and made the plan. Then I showed back up.

The employees at the dealership apologized profusely and helped me unload the wrong scooter out of my backend (well, not technically MY backend, but you understand). We loaded the new one up and I was off again. On my way out, I rolled down my window to wish the other two gals good luck. One of the ladies commented on the 50c written on the side of the scooter I now had loaded in my truck. She said the reason they had bought the VIP version was because Iowa law stated these motorized vehicles could NOT be more than 49cc or they qualified as a motorcycle and our 14 year-olds would not be able to drive it.

Holy crap! What was to be a quick grab and run was turning in to a venture I was NOT enjoying.

I questioned the employee that was still busy helping her load her scooter into her trailer. He assured me that the bike I had loaded met the Iowa laws. He seemed confident, so I drove off. As I drove down the freeway I realized I hadn’t grabbed the key out of the ignition. I took the next exit and grabbed both the keys and the owner’s manual. I feverishly thumbed through the book looking for any indication that the moped I was about to present my daughter on her big day was legally what she needed. I found nothing. So once I again, I headed back to the dealer.

I’m sure they rolled their eyes and thought, “This lady is NEVER going to leave us alone!”. I found the gentleman that I had purchased the scooter from one month earlier. He assured me that the scooter was 49cc. He pointed out the place in the owner’s manual that stated the size of the motor or whatever. He could have been feeding me a line of crap, I wouldn’t have known the difference. Oh, how I wished Jackson could have gotten out of work that day and come with me. He would have understood all this boy stuff. In the end the 50c written on the side of the machine was simply part of the model number. I’m sure this guy thought I was a complete idiot.

I’m happy to report that the scooter we gave our oldest daughter a scooter was exactly what she needed. I just pray that it last long enough for her two sisters to enjoy. We haven’t seen her since!