Nose Pickles

Eli and I are sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for his cream of wheat to finish cooking.  Just now, I looked the window and when I turned back to look at Eli, he was holding out his finger and telling me there was something on it.  I knew exactly what it was.  I asked him where he got it.  He told me in his nose.  Then he went on to say, "Mommy, I got a pickle out of my nose."  I corrected him, no, that was not a pickle, it was a big booger.  But he insisted, a pickle.  This is not our first encounter with boogers in this house, so I was surprised at his confusion.  But with that description, you can imagine the size and color of what was on his finger.  We cleaned it off and moved on.  He told me moments later that he had another yuck on his finger and before I could clean it, he wiped it under our kitchen table.  I thought that wiping boogers was a learned activity, but apparently not.  No one taught Eli to wipe them under our kitchen table.  He just knew to do it.  Ahh, the fall of man.  

Littered with help

The week continues with more of Eli's antics.  He is bent on making messes for me to clean up.  Today, I pardon his attack because I believe it was done with a generous spirit.  He wanted to help me, at least that is what I am choosing to believe.  

Every day when I clean out the litter box, Eli watches and observes.  He usually will offer some kind of commentary, like "good job, Mommy" or "that was a BIG cat poop".  Today, he must have felt that I didn't do an adequate job.   At some point this morning, he snuck into the bathroom and did some poop scooping of his own.  I don't know when there was a minute when we weren't together, but Eli seems to be some kind of magician.  Later, I walked into the bathroom and gasped.  There was litter all over the floor and the scoop still in the box.  I asked Eli if he did this.  "Yes."  Lucky for me, I had already scooped the offending poops this morning or I would have walked into a minefield.  Instead, Eli just used the scooper to shovel the litter out of the box and onto the floor, like a nasty little sandbox.  Sick.

Thanks for the help, son.  I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring, probably he'll find some way to pull the toilet off and throw it down the stairs.  

  

Grape Juices of Wrath

Sometimes there are some subtle indicators that your day will not go well from the minute you wake-up; other times, the indicators are not so subtle.  I have been sleeping very poorly at night because our two cats seem to think a great starting place for their all-night wrestling match should be the very pillow that I am sleeping on.  Even though I curse them and throw them off the bed, they always come back.  The lack of sleep does not improve my morning appearance.  This morning, I decided not to fight against ugliness I saw in the mirror, but to embrace it instead.  Not only would I not be using make-up today, but I would also wear sweats all day (is this any different from any other day, you ask.  No, not really).

While Eli woke up in a very pleasant way this morning, the smiles quickly wore off when we were addressing the breakfast menu.  All suggestions were met with "NO, I want something else!"  I found a force-feed to be the most effective means of nourishment for him.  Then, while I turned my back to wash up our breakfast mess, Eli decided to help himself to the items in the refrigerator.  This usually doesn't amount to anything, but given his new dexterous state, he managed to twist open the grape juice before turning over the container and dumping it's contents all over the floor.  I was less than thrilled.  I've included a video of the aftermath.  

At 1:53 pm, a list of disagreeable things have already happened, in order not to depress you, I will stop my list at the above (and also because this stinking headache is making it hard to think).  Since I am an eternal optimist, I believe things will take a turn for the better and I will likely win the lottery later today (though I have not lately purchased any tickets), and possibly be picked for a national modeling campaign (even in no make-up and sweats).  If either of these events take place, I will post the footage from the local news.  If my day continues in a downward spiral, there might be footage of a local woman who lost her mind and went running naked down the highway until she was arrested and forced to do community service as punishment.  Anything can happen today.    

More than I can bear

I am a bit clumsy. Sometimes it is in my control, sometimes things just happen around me and I get to sort it out. In my control would be running along the sidewalk one day and tripping over a crack and getting laid out on the sidewalk in a most dramatic fashion. I can still see my discman (this was a while ago) sliding away from me on the concrete. Since I had recently watched Rudy, I decided to pick myself up and keep running. By the time I got home, I had blood down well into my sock.

Clumsy is jogging slowly in soccer practice and tripping over a clump of grass, which resulted in a broken ankle.

Here is an example that is not in my control: Today, I sat on the bed in Eli's room and heard a giant BOOM! Let me be clear here, I didn't sit on a mini bed, or a crib, I broke the double bed. Eli asked me about the noise. I told him that what likely happened was the uneven weight distribution that the end of the bed had suddenly sustained. I told him that he should stay calm because a cool head is what works in situations such as this. But what I really thought was that my brute force has just broken a bed. It could have also been that last week I was teaching Eli to run and do flying leaps on this very bed.

Here is how the rest of the scene played out. Lily lifting up the mattress to access the damage. Eli offering to help. Lily realizing that the Ikea slats have slipped from their positions and are now lying precariously half way under the bed. Lily trying to hold the mattress with one arm while using her useless, uncoordinated left hand to untangle and replace the slats while redirecting Eli's "help". Lily giving up and shoving the mattress off the frame and going at it with both uncoordinated hands, while managing to add hundreds of slivers to her dry hands. Lily finally succeeding but needing extra deodorant from sweat that has broken out after the strenuous effort. Eli's congratulating words making his mother feel that maybe she should try to fix something else in the house.

Note: The bed in the picture below is merely a representation of the broken bed effect. If it were the real thing, Eli's room would be depressing and I would have to add that I had a large piece of concrete in the back pocket of my jeans before I sat down (which was unfortunately not the case).

Coming from Behind

There are times where I am far more comfortable than I should be. Today, as I got out of the car at work, I was in a bit of a "bind" due to a poor pants/underwear combination choice. Since I spend most of my time at home, I am a bit less inhibited than many who guard their actions from the prying eyes of public. Standing outside my car, I corrected the wedged material and made my way toward my work entrance. It was then that I realized my unlady-like action had been on display for the office behind the window that was directly behind my behind. The light was on and sure enough there was an observer sitting there in his chair.

Oops. How will I ever procure the respect of the public if I am constantly embarrassing myself? This seems a lost cause, maybe I should give up entirely (wait maybe I already have...)

This latest incident might be enough to earn me the much-coveted title of "Hungry Butt" (though I would have to steal it from an undisclosed person).

Precision spitting

There are a lot of little things that happen during the day when you stay home with your child; some of them funny, some of them gross, and some of them are both.  A lot of times I want to tell someone these little details, but it might be overkill, so I mostly keep them to myself.  

But this I will share.  Just now, something so gross, yet so amazing happened.  Eli was snacking on a rice cake and running around the house.  He came into the kitchen to let me know that he had a poop that urgently needed to be attended to.  I scooped him up and carried him like a baby into the living room.  As I was doing this, he was still talking and he inadvertently spat a little rice cake in my direction.  I felt it land and had an idea of it's location.  I laid him down and stood up to look at a nearby mirror.  I was right.  The chewed up rice cake landed inside my nostril!  It looked like a booger just sitting up there.  I cleaned it out in a hurry (which I am a pro at doing, I might mention) and marveled at the aim it took to get a chunk of rice cake up there.  Wow and gross all wrapped into one.  

I keep blowing my nose now because my nostril feels a little violated.  

Night Owl (whooo cleans)

This is what I decided to come and do at 9pm tonight.  I lit a fire under my own butt and cleaned out my closet and crawl space.  As usual, I started this project at a stupid time, but it was when the motivation hit!  My mom gave me a shelf to stack all the junk that was on the floor before and I got after the crawl space and realized there was nothing in there but crap. Now we can put something worthwhile in there and have storage!

Note:  Notice the mirror on the right side of the picture of the crawl space.  Moments after I took this picture, the mirror fell and crashed into the water heater and smashed into a million sharp pieces.  Poor Mark was upstairs trying to sleep because at this point it was after 11 and he had such a full day.  I had to shout up there to let him know I wasn't dead.  As I tried to remove and dispose of the glass shards, I inadvertently jabbed myself on an edge and cut the top of my hand near the knuckle.  It didn't hurt so I waited a minute before I looked at the damage.  When I looked, I tell you I could see a little of my muscle through the cut.  I thought, "oh, great" and started to envision myself in the emergency room with sweats on and raggedy hair (what else would I be in?).  I went to the stairs and said, "Um, Mark, I cut my hand on the glass and I might need stitches".  Of course, as usual, it turned out to be a little bit of an exaggeration.  Mark said it wasn't too bad and if anything, I might need just one stitch, which is not even worth it.  So he disinfected and band-aided me and gave me a stern lecture about the stupidity of late-night projects.  He wouldn't let me even look at the glass because I'm a clumsy fool and would likely cut my other hand if I tried cleaning it up.  So, he cleaned up the 6 feet of broken class.  I had to gauze and bandage over my band-aid because it was leaking blood and I still had some trash to get rid of, which required the use of my left hand.  

So, once again, when it comes to a womanly task, I am a dunce.  But at least my closet is clean.  I hope I don't get some infection and disease from this cut on my hand, that came from a mirror that was likely dirty with rust and all kinds of menacing bacteria.

    

Hot Sign

Yesterday, as I was driving home from work on a cold, rainy night, I read a blurry sign through my foggy windshield.  I thought I was imagining it so I went back around the block to see it again.  This is indeed what it read:

Hot Buffalo Chips and Wings basket $5.99

This seems to be a case of poor wording.  

I can't imagine a situation where I would pay $5.99 for a basket of hot buffalo chips.  Sick.  

Well, maybe if they were really deep fried...

Fresh perspective, not so fresh water

In order to get Eli to stop drinking his bath water, I was forced to tell him that it was gross booty water.  After all, who really wants to be drinking water their bare butt has been soaking in?  I bet he just hadn't thought about it like that.  That's why it is always good to bring another perspective...  maybe we are all drinking booty water of some sort or another, and we just need someone to open our eyes to it (and close our mouths).  

A Small Slip-up

It is no secret that when it comes to knowing what is appropriate to teach a toddler, I am completely in the dark.  I don't know what to teach him to call things like poop or pee or even the names of his "parts".  What I teach him seems to shock people, so it is likely that I am making poor decisions.  

Take the following conversation for example.  Recently, Eli has been struggling with distinguishing between males and females.  Very often, he will loudly ask "What's that guy doing?", clearly in reference to a woman.  People will feel very offended by being mislabeled as the opposite sex (it has happened to me before, but by totally competent adults...).  I felt I finally needed to address this lack of knowledge with a lesson.  While we were in the car the other day, I started to explain to him some of the physical characteristics of boys and girls.  It went something like this:  Girls typically have long hair, like Mommy.  Boys typically have short hair, like Daddy.  He nodded.  I asked if Daddy was a boy or a girl.  He said boy.  I thought we finally had it.  I said what about Mommy.  Also a boy.  Dang.  I was trying to think what other things I could explain to him that define the male and female (besides the glaringly obvious).  I told him that girls wear make-up.  Then, I ran out of things.  I know that since we are potty training, this might make some sense to him:  boys have wieners and girls do not.  He nodded.  Clearly, this is not something that will help him distinguish between males and females in the grocery store, but maybe just so he realizes that there are two distinct sexes out there.  Somehow, all this information must have gotten jumbled in his head, mixing with instructions of what "big boys" do versus what babies do (i.e. big boys do not have pacifiers).  Eli told me that he as a big boy, had a wiener.  I affirmed this. Then he said Daddy had one too.  And for some reason then he chose to yell, "and Mommy has a big wiener!"  I told him most definitely not.  We ended our lessons for the day.  This is why it would be wise for me never to home-school my children.

Perhaps he is not capable of this kind of rational thought yet.  I will have to continue to apologize to people and explain that he doesn't understand the difference and hope he doesn't yell something about them having a wiener.  

Oh brother, I really got it wrong this time...

Here is a video of us quizzing Eli.

Poor kids have the best imagination...

Eli, let's go out in the yard and play with the leaves.  Let's rake piles of them and jump around; we'll bury ourselves and throw them at each other!  What's that you say?  We don't really have a yard?  We have only a sapling with limited leaves?  There are only 60 leaves on the ground to choose from?  That's ok, we'll play in them anyway!

      

Eli has such a great imagination.  He kept bringing me piles of leaves and telling me they were different kinds of food, "Here, Mommy, eat your pees." or "I made you some soup."  Maybe if we could afford to buy food, he would have to imagine us eating leaves...

Also, we discovered a "baby snake".  But then we killed him because everyone knows he tempted the woman and brought all of humanity into sin.  

Bibos

Eli is always making me laugh.  He has strong opinions about funny things.  Take for instance his bibs.  If I try to put on a plain bib with stripes or something, he usually will take it off and request another.  The request is almost always the same.  "I want the Bears bib!"  The first time he said it I was really excited and took out this bib.  

He tore it off and said, "No!  Bears bib!"  I was at a loss and thought this was another one of those 2-year-old melt downs with no purpose.  Then as I dug through the drawer, I found the one he wanted:  a yellow bib with little teddy bears that said "I love grandma".  This is the bib he wants to wear every day and this is the bib I would like to get rid of.  Here it is.

Potty and Potty

Recently, life with Eli has been bittersweet.  At times, as his mother, I would like to pull out my hair in exasperation but other times I bathe in the enjoyment of this funny little person.  

For many months now, I have been attempting to potty train this boy, but with very little success.  Last night, when I realized we were almost out of diapers again (!!), I made the decision that this has been quite enough.  Eli would absolutely become potty trained today and we would never look back.  Through breakfast this morning, I pumped liquids to get him primed.  But then to my surprise, he sat 40 minutes on his little pot without one drop coming out.  We finally had a success so I put a pull-up on him and let him collect his reward (a 20 minute) cartoon called Little Bear.  While he sat on the couch, the ounces and ounces of liquid he had consumed decided to make an exit.  In those few minutes, he peed enough to overflow his diaper.  I might mention he was still drinking a cup of juice during the show so the pump was still filling.  I put him back on the pot and sure enough, same story.  Another 45 minutes passed before another pee.  After nap and lunch we tried for another but the shy bladder prevailed.  I thought maybe a change of venue might help him, so I put him in front of the sliding glass door.  I have enclosed some pictures.  Needless to say, I am not throwing out all of the diapers tonight.

On a similar subject, Eli is a two-year-old verbal sponge lately.  It seems that he will pick out the word from your sentence that you would least want to hear out of a toddler's mouth and scream it for the world to hear.  I might be a bad parent but some of these words didn't seem that bad to me; they weren't expletives, but I have witnessed the shocked looks on people's faces that might make me think otherwise.  I just laughed when Eli would say "stupid" until he started directing it at people.  Then I had to step in.  Now it is on the forbidden list.  I won't even tell you the name he calls his "parts".  

Tonight, as I rolled on the floor with Eli, I felt a tag from my shirt itch me.  I said out loud, "That itches."  And to my surprise and entertainment, Eli looked seriously at me and said, "Your butthole itches?"  I think he was concerned that I, like him, might need some diaper rash cream.  I thank him for the sensitivity.  I didn't correct him because I was laughing too hard.  

Let's be honest, is anyone really that surprised that my child is the one with the potty mouth, but not the potty skills? 

    

Night Terror

Every now and then a parent will have a night which defies explanation. Unfortunately, tonight was that night for Mark. Immediately after work tonight, I went to dinner with friends and Mark was given Eli's night time duties. What was supposed to be an easy, early night quickly escalated into an unmanageable situation.

Here are the facts. Eli, who was wearing a less absorbent pull-up, peed our bed. Then when he was being cleaned up, he pooped in the bathtub. While Mark pulled him out of tub to clean the poop situation, he peed on his father's socks. Mark ran to get his mini potty, and while he was gone, Eli peed on his bath towel.

The following conversation is what took place in it's aftermath.

By the way, Mark, this is what comes of giving Eli juice for dinner when Mom says to use it sparingly.

Pet Supply Slaughter House

Yesterday, Mark and I took Eli to the local pet supply store. This is something Eli loves because he gets to see all the fish and little rodents in tanks and cages. We had promised it to him as some kind of bribe for good behavior, so we were obliged to deliver.

But, something very odd was happening at that store yesterday. It was like all the creatures inside had suddenly become predators. We were looking at all the fish tanks and we noticed a particular tank where there was a flurry of commotion. In it, a gang of white fish were attacking a poor, mangled orange fish. I was horrified to see that the orange fish was still alive and weakly trying to fend off the attack. Those white jerks had even gouged out his eyes! (Yuck, even as I type this, I'm still so grossed out and horrified) I was banging on the tank, trying to break up the fight. I turned to a goth-looking employee and told her she had to stop this cruelty. She just shrugged her shoulders and said, "It happens." I had to turn my back on the fish but I felt sick from it. As we looked at other tanks, we saw floating dead fish or ones stuck in plastic plants. The tanks didn't seem dirty, as if the fish were all dying from nastiness, but rather they had been savagely attacked like the poor little eyeless orange fish.

We somehow distracted Eli from the fishy carnage and took over to the nicer, more peaceful rodent section. It was at these cages that we saw a brawl between two gross rats. They were wrestling around and biting each other. All around there was unrest in these cages too! Mark said, "Let's get out of this store." I very much agreed with him.

Sick! It was like they were pumping testosterone into the air at the store which was causing all the animals to feud. Oh the fall...

On a brighter note, for about two minutes Mark and I thought we might have won $100,000 from McDonald's, but then we read what the stamp really said. We had not won yet, and if we wanted a chance in the future, we would have to eat McDonald's four times a day, which is what we have planned to do. I have no idea what this new plan will do to my supposed diet, but it doesn't look good for me...

And Time Goes By...

I'm often guilty of thinking life goes by too quickly. Sometimes it feels like I opened my eyes one morning and I was much older. Suddenly my baby is two and I have been married for four years. When did it all happen? But then there are different times when it seems I am watching my life like a movie in slow motion. This week has been one of those times.

This morning I sat in church and I had a strange feeling. It occurred to me that exactly seven days ago, I had been standing in almost the exact same spot, yet everything had been very different. I sat next to other members of my family and we had plans for lunch. We all piled into my aunt's house for Swedish pancakes made by real Swedes (my cousins). We sat with my grandma, who slept in her bed. That day, I just wanted to hold her hand and make her trembling stop. I hummed hymns (poorly) and wished I knew the words in Spanish. When it was finally time to go, she slept peacefully and I kissed her goodbye.

Monday came and went and things got busy so I didn't visit her that day. I would go on Tuesday, I thought.

Tuesday came and yes, I did go visit her, but not on the terms I had thought. While still at home, I got that call and had to quickly handle the business of calling family members and alerting them. An hour later, I stood in front of my grandma's bed, just like I had two days earlier, but this time there was no longer life in her body. I watched her intently, willing her to breathe just one more breath, but there was none. We, as her beloved family members, gathered around my grandma's body and grieved for the loss. There is nothing so hard as watching a totally heartbroken child mourn the loss of a mother. But as it all went on, I felt as if I was watching all this happen, rather than experiencing it. In my head, I wrote down my observations and feelings. A hospice nurse called in the death to some other party on the phone, without even thinking of politely stepping into another room. I guess that's what comes from repeated exposure to this same kind of situation. She loudly told the person on the phone my grandma's name, age, social security number and other pertinent information. She was very jovial and conversational on the phone. When presumably asked the cause of death, she too loudly announced "Brain Tumor". Behind her, we continued to cry. All I could think is that this seems like a scene out of a book, not a real-life situation.

Not long later, I watched as the funeral home came for my grandma. I mostly watched my aunt, who to me, tells the story of what it is to love someone. She took such care of her mom, both when she was healthy and then ill, even at the cost of her own health. On that morning, when the funeral home workers told her she might not want to stand in the room, she told them that she would stay with her mom to the end. When the older worker faltered for a moment, she even took her mom's feet and put them into the bag for them. I stood in amazement, wonder, and respect for this small woman who had loved her mother with everything she possibly could.

Friday, we had the funeral and buried my grandma on a beautiful day in a beautiful cemetery. My heels stuck in the grass as I watched her body being lowered into the ground. I hummed Amazing Grace in my head and said "See you later" to this woman I loved very much; a woman who helped raise me, my siblings and my cousins. She had a powerful love for God in her that I am awed by.

So, here we are, back at Sunday again. Just seven days later, but the world I live in, is a very different place.

At the funeral service, the pastor said that her favorite song may have been "When I Cross the Jordan" but he thought right now, she is walking with her Lord, standing on a great beach, next to the ocean. The is the picture of her I have fixed in my mind right now...

Meet me at the Dumpster

When you are attempting to sell your house, there are few things out of your control that bring down the value of your home.  For us, one of these things is an eye-sore of a dumpster that sits across the parking lot.  Our neighbors routinely stack their furniture and discarded appliances by it's side, never caring that the garbage man refuses to collect these things with the rest of the trash bags and rubbish.  For over six months, there has sat a dirty brown couch that collects rain and mold.  This is all very displeasing, but what are we to do about it?

Today, as I went to toss my bag into the dumpster, I noticed a new development.  Next to the curb were three pairs of underwear.  I asked myself how these underwear came to lie here.  As I am a natural at mystery-solving, here are the conclusions I have drawn:  Someone accidentally had three pairs of underwear still stuck in their pant leg (as this can sometimes happen) when they went to dispose of their trash and upon arrival, the three silently made their way out.  Now their owner is frantically searching through the laundry for his/her three favorite pairs of underwear, never thinking to check in front of the dumpster.  Or maybe a young woman was jump roping all the way to the dumpster wearing four pairs of underwear, due to the recent cold spell, and three of the pairs slid off unnoticed.  The final explanation is that someone drove by quickly and wanted to get rid of his ex-girlfriend's underwear that had been left in his car (three times) and just chucked them in the general direction of a very sad-looking dumpster.  These seem to be the only three plausible explanations for this phenomenon.  I suppose you may draw your own conclusions.

I am including photo evidence of this ridiculous garbage receptacle and the various add-ons left by my neighbors.

      

Welcome to our morning

Here's a few things I know.

I know my floor is too dirty when Eli drops a piece of Play-Doh on the floor and when I pick it up to give it back to him it is so covered in junk, it looks like a piece of shake 'n bake chicken.  (Disclaimer:  Before you call DCFS, know that when you have a toddler, though you may sweep every day, your kitchen floor often looks like a war zone.)

I know my kid is eating Play-Doh and lying about it when he says "Gross!" and has blue flecks on his lips.  When I ask him if he ate Play-Do, he say, "No, that's gross."

I know my townhouse is too close to my neighbor's when I am using the Chopper (you know that thing you bang on to cut onions) and it makes my neighbor's dog bark for 20 minutes.

I know Eli needs his nails trimmed when he has yellow Play-Doh under every fingernail, like a little crescent.

I know that this is a funny little video of Eli singing.

  

Peeping Lily

While waiting for long measures of time at the check-out line of the grocery store, your eyes tend to wander.  Today, I looked for awhile at the trashy magazine covers, then at the candy, then I settled on the few groceries of the lady in front of me.  She had only three boxes and a bottle.  Upon further study, I realized that she was purchasing the following products:  two boxes of enemas, one box of feminine douche, and one very large bottle of sambuca.  She didn't seem to have any embarrassment or shame about these items, just matter-of-factly displaying them on the conveyor belt.  I admit, in my immaturity, I had to suppress a smile at the identity of the items.  What a night she must have planned...

Catty Comments

Let me tell you the story of a small and slightly less loved member of our family. He is Lorenzo, my cat. I have a love/hate relationship with this small feline. We adopted him in the first six months of our marriage from the local PetsMart. He called out our names and gripped our fingers with his paws; we just couldn't resist. But then, we got home and realized we had adopted the single most needy and nuts cat that ever roamed the Earth. Mark wanted to give him back right away when he wouldn't let us sleep because his obscenely loud purring and kneading of his paws (which had claws at the time) on our faces. I told Mark that we would not be irresponsible pet owners, so we persevered. He got a little better with time.

On the positive side, Lorenzo's neediness makes him quite affectionate, much more than a cat should be. He is constantly sitting on our chests and head-butting us. And he is a great looking cat. If he were not, he would not have fared as well in our house, for we choose things strictly for their aesthetic appeal. Ugly cat would equal ugly treatment.

I had never had a cat before Lorenzo. These strange animals were very much a mystery to me. I did not realize they were vengeful, snobby animals. When we brought Eli home from the hospital, the cat started to pee on any piece of clothing or towel that was left on the ground (which at that time, was a lot of them). We thumped him repeatedly but it wasn't until he got used to Eli and we started picking up our laundry that the stage passed. It was terrible to put on a pair of pants and then hours later sniff around for a strange smell, then realize that it was you and you had cat piss on your pant leg.

When I was pregnant with Eli, the cat decided that I was his preferred owner (Mark might disagree with this). He started to sleep almost literally right on my face at night. I couldn't keep him away from me. This has continued on to this day. He comes and spoons me like he is a person. I try not to move because I might disturb him. When I finally get sick of the position I am in and I shove him away, he takes a bite at me and runs away. This almost always gains some kind of loud and confused swear from me in the middle of the night.

Here are some fun facts about Lorenzo. He has this chicken that he will carry around in his mouth and then randomly throw him in the air and chase him down. If you manage to piss off this cat, he will hunt you down from across the room or wait till you walk by and bite your achilles. He has recently taken to disgustingly humping different objects in the house (he's neutered). And he chases bugs around our house and paws at them.

On this subject, last night while we were watching TV, the cat started jumping around frantically. We saw that he was chasing after a moth. The poor moth was stunned by an aggressive paw and before we knew it, he put the giant moth in his mouth. I tried to get him to release it, all I could see is his wings hanging grotesquely out of Lorenzo's mouth. He would not give him up. I had to watch the foul animal chew up and swallow that moth. He sneezed a few times, which I suppose could have been that moth fluttering in his body, tickling his nose. Sick!

All this to say that I very much love this cat, but he has a very long list of cons(as maybe we all do). If I were a lesser person, I would send him packing but as it is, I will let him snuggle me at night and I will overlook his short-comings, for I know he is a fallen creature, just like me. Also, he helps boost my self-esteem by preferring me (but I might also add he bites me more than anyone else too).

But just look at what a nice-looking cat he is, could you resist him? By the way, would anyone like to cat-sit for us in March?

Life as I know it

I had very great plans for this day but already at 9:17 am, things are getting away from me.  Let me begin by saying that yesterday, after weighing myself, I made a decision that today was the start of a new life for me, at least cardiovascularly speaking.  I was going to do what I have never been able to do before, I was going to set my alarm and wake up early to go for a walk-jog.  I set my alarm for 6 am, which would give me enough time to get out there and back before Mark had to leave for work.  But, unexpectedly, at 5:53, there was a wailing sound from the room down the hall.  It was Eli, awake and mad.  After a few minutes of coaxing, I was able to get him to lie back down and look at a light projection on the ceiling.  Who knows if he ever went back to sleep.  Then I got back into my room and looked at the clock, it read 6:02.  As I glanced around the room, one thing struck me.  It was still dark outside.  How the heck was I going to go out walk-jogging in the dark?  Maybe this is something that should have been considered when I was constructing the Great Life Turn-Around of 2008 in my mind.  So I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up until 7:35, when it was really time to get up.  

Next disaster.  While feeding Eli breakfast with little luck, I was making my morning Internet rounds when the dumb wireless connection wasn't working.  I tried restarting the computer, then unplugging the router.  Let me quickly explain where our router sits.  It is on top of our giant entertainment center, which is really like a seven foot tower that is about two inches from the wall. All the wires are hidden in this small space.  During first attempt at rebooting the router, I unplugged the power cord but when I went to plug it back in, I lost my grip on the plug and it fell behind the shelf.  The only way to get it back is to jam your arm into that two inch space and use your fingers like pincers to grab the cord.  Even though it was uncomfortable on the skin of my forearm, I succeeded in record time.  Then I came back to the computer to check on our Internet status.  Dang!  It was still not working properly.  This time I unplugged the Ethernet cord and the power cord.  And of course, the power cord went flying back behind the shelf again.  I had to jam my arm back there again and pince it.  I got it three-forths of the way and dropped it, this time to a much further, out of my reach position.  Also, my arm was stuck, all the way to the armpit behind the shelf.  I had to throw myself away from the shelf to pull it out, leaving half my skin behind.  Now was the dilemma.  If I wanted further Internet access today, I would have to find a way to get that cord back.  I went searching in the kitchen for a tool.  What I found was a pair of kitchen grabbers (I don't know the proper names for any of my kitchen tools).  With this, I was able to once again (painfully) wedge my arm back behind the shelf and this time successfully fish out the cord.  Mercifully, this time the Internet came back to me, as clearly I am now using it to type this blog.  

My arm shows the track marks of this morning's trauma.  It is scraped from below the elbow bend all the way to the armpit.  I might just tell people I got in a motorcycle accident, because the inside of the arm is a very common place for road rash.   

Down the toilet we go

As I have mentioned in earlier blogs, we are deep in the throws of a potty training struggle.  Unfortunately, I am as much to blame for our troubles as my defiant son.  I am inconsistent, which is the downfall of the potty training parent.  

Last week, I made up my mind that this would all change.  I have had it with buying expensive packs of diapers and wrestling Eli to get them on and off.  I sat down and made him a potty chart that we would put star stickers on when we had a toilet triumph.  I knew better than to make the chart a daily one so I put weeks up there.  How many times in a week could Eli use the toilet?  For 6 days of the first week, no star found it's way to the poster.  But then yesterday, after 15 minutes on the little toilet, Eli had a success.  We took the pot to the toilet and dumped the pee in.  I let him flush the toilet.  Generally, as an afterthought, when the toilet is flushing down, Eli likes to tear off a piece of toilet paper and throw it in the pot.  I haven't really explained to him that we, as adults, use that paper for cleaning before we throw it in.  I just let him feel like he is a big boy.  Then yesterday, as I was rinsing his little potty pot, I heard a big PLUNK.  I turned around to see the entire roll of toilet paper sinking in the toilet, which was still whisking around the pee.  I had to pull the roll out and sternly tell Eli that was an unfortunate decision he made, resulting in money loss and inconvenience for the rest of the family that depends on that toilet paper daily.  He agreed with me on the error of his ways and we went on with our day.

Last night the poster gained another star and no other objects found themselves floating in the toilet.  

This morning we had another success.  This time while the toilet was flushing I heard a CRACK.  Inside the toilet was a shattered tea light holder with accompanying candle.  I had to fish out broken shards of ceramic with my bare hands.  I think most of the pee had already left the toilet but it was still a quite unpleasant experience.  This time I had to explain to Eli that not only was he being disrespectful in breaking our bathroom decorations, he was also causing me to soil my hands with non-potable toilet water and this was all together unacceptable.  I'm not sure he agreed with me on this point, he might have thought the water potable because the kitty is often seen (or heard) drinking from this very toilet.  

In future flushes, I might need to be on better guard, or I might see my purse go into the pissy flush.  

I include for you the evidence of earlier disasters.   

    

Caught, Again!

Last night I had a very poor night of sleep. I stayed at my aunt's house to lend a hand. On my way home at 6 am, I thought it wise to stop by the ol' Dunkin Doughnuts for some coffee and doughnuts for me and my mister. I'm embarrassed to admit how many times a week I drive through this particular food stand, but suffice it to say that the owner knows my name (well, he calls me Lillian) and my order. This morning, I came tearing into the parking lot and just about ran into a ladder they had blocking the drive-thru. I got close enough to read a sign that said, "Sorry, this drive-thru is under repairs, please come inside". I pulled into a parking spot and carefully weighed my options. Go into a public place with bird's-nest-hair, my pajamas, no make-up, wearing my glasses or drink no coffee this morning. I could see a line that had already formed inside. I could feel my hand shaking from serious caffeine addiction that had not yet been satisfied. The choice was clear. I pulled my bedraggled body out of the car and went and stood in line behind two business-casual men. The man directly in front of me did a double-take as I walked behind him. He might have thought I was homeless and going to steal his doughnuts.

Then something unexpected happened. A woman walked in behind me that caused me to do a double-take, for she looked worse than I. She had on a giant orange sweatshirt, giant cut-off pajama pants with small blue hearts and orange crocs. Her hair looked unwashed and she also had her glasses on. I smiled at her and said, "I didn't anticipate having to get out of the car this morning." She responded, "Clearly neither did I". We both shared a laugh as the two men in front of us rolled their eyes. Gene, my doughnut provider, recognized me after a few seconds and guessed my order before I could say it. I quickly paid him and ran out. He told me he would see me tomorrow (pathetic). As I went through the door, I heard him say "Hi Mary! Glazed Cake Doughnut?" Ha!

It makes me feel better that while once again, I am caught in public looking like a disaster, I am not the only one. There are others out there just like me. I don't have to be ashamed anymore.

I am a songbird - like a grackle

One of Mark's co-workers, who knew me when I was younger, recently told him she seemed to remember Lily having a very good voice and asked if he had ever heard me sing.  I believe Mark was a bit dumbfounded by the sheer foolishness of this comment.  Not only has he heard me sing on a regular basis, but he has likely sustained some serious hearing damage from both the volume and the shrill key that can only be heard from the mouth of a suffering animal.  Instead of putting my child in time-out, I sing to him as punishment.  That does more damage than any rounds of sitting in chairs.  He rolls on the floor, covering his ears, telling me he will never do it again (for those of  you ready to call DCFS, perhaps this is a bit of embellishment).  

I believe there is usually a critical moment in a person's life when they realize they have not been blessed with the gift of song.  I used to dream of wowing people with my rendition of "Somewhere Out There" on karaoke.  I would sing Disney songs and wonder at the similarities between my voice and Ariel's.  But then one fateful evening, during a church fundraiser, I had volunteered to sing as part of a trio in front of the crowd.  I can't believe anyone actually agreed to let me.  The whole song was terrible, with me switching on and off key.  There was a small group of teenagers (which included my two siblings) who stood in the back corner and giggled loudly at what they heard.  We did a sad disservice to Michael W. Smith's "Friends are Friends Forever" song.  My mom insisted it wasn't bad while my truthful siblings assured me it was like torture.  People might have actually donated more money that night because they believed me to have special needs.  

Since that night, I have never sung in public again (for the good of the population as a whole). But if someone needs me to sing in their wedding, and they have enough money, I might consider coming out of retirement.  

USPS = US-PU!

I am filing an unofficial grievance with the United States Postal Service - again. Usually I have an issue only around Christmas time, but this week has been too much. The USPS has wronged me twice in the last month.

Over three weeks ago, I took a [beautiful] handmade baby blanket in a well-wrapped box to the local post office. Since the line was unthinkably long, I used the package kiosk that they are always going on about on the commercials. I sent the package Two-Day Guarantee (opting not to pay extra for tracking, or insurance - what was a knit baby blanket worth? only man-hours) and skipped happily out of the post office. Then I started the waiting game. Two days went by and I didn't hear from my friend. On the third day, I sent her a text telling her to check her mail that day. Nothing there. I checked with her every day for a week. Still nothing. On the week and a half mark, I called the local post office. They asked if I paid for tracking. No. Then there's nothing they can do for me. I called the Canton, OH post office next, where I was informed that this address did not exist. I assured him it did. He told me I was nuts. This is not the first time her post office has claimed her house/address did not exist. He told me my package would probably be coming back to me soon. So I wait, wait, wait.

Next grievance. My sister-in-law has over-nighted football tickets to us. She paid $16.50 for the package to get to us in a hurry, but it needs a signature for delivery. So I wait. Monday comes and goes and no package comes. Tuesday I am on the look-out all day for the package. I'm waiting with Eli, straining to hear a knock or the doorbell. Nothing. Hours later, I decide to drop an envelope in the mailbox. I open the front door and to my surprise there are two things sitting on my doorstep. A slip saying "we missed you, now you have to pick up your package at the post office tomorrow" and box containing a homemade baby blanket that looks like it was run over and dragged to my doorstep, three weeks late. The crappy mail-lady never even bothered to knock on my door. I yelled down the street at her, though clearly she had been gone for hours at this point. Maybe tomorrow I will leave her some rotten fruit in my neighbor's mailbox (I still want to get my mail don't I?)

So, United States Postal Service, you have once again brought me displeasure. You only ever bring me stupid bills and credit card ads and never any checks!

A Moment Like This

Because I have yet to learn my lesson, and my family continually needs to eat dinner, tonight I attempted another elaborate meal.  But as usual, things quickly turned sour.  

The problem was I had two many things going on at once.  I was working three burners at once, an unprecedented feat for me.  I was hard-boiling a few eggs on the back burner and I think I must not have put enough water in the pot.  As I lifted the pot lid, I noticed stray strands of egg floating viciously around the pot.  Dang it!  I exploded one of them.  I was amused by this small disaster so I grabbed my camera.  In my attempts to get the perfect picture, I neglected my other burners, thus burning the pot stickers on burner number two.  Burner number three miraculously produced a delicious pot of Ramen, if you were wondering.  I can feel your judgment as you are adding up the components of our dinner, but I will tell you this, the eggs are for tomorrow, not to be mixed with pot stickers and Ramen noodles.  

I am including photo evidence of the finished product.  By the way, Mark says the eggs look like a picture you see in a science book labeled, "the moment of conception".  Ha ha.  

      

Same Nightmare, Different Night

It is very possible that this will be a repeat blog subject, but I am too lazy to look back through my old posts to check.

Over the course of the last 5 years, I have had a recurring nightmare that causes me much anxiety and makes me wake up sweating. This isn't about being chased down and murdered or even having my limbs removed. The reason I write this blog is to tell you how stupid this nightmare really is. Each dream is basically the same, but the details are varied.

Here it is: I am walking down a hallway with people all around. I realize I am in still in high school and it is a new year. As I am walking, I realize I don't have any idea where I am going. The bell has rung and I am frantically searching for my schedule but can't find it. In my dream, I wander around, looking for my next class, but can never find it. It is a sense of helplessness and anxiety that lasts for the many hours I sleep.

This was a real situation several times in school, though not to the same extreme. It has been almost 10 years since I have been in high school, but still this fear follows me. It is aggravated by another school year starting, school supplies being purchased and a season changing. All of this happens around me but it odd to not have an active role in this. I know longer need school supplies, or fancy new clothes to show off. I don't have to think about a locker or dread P.E. So, why should I have this nightmare over and over?

What's next, nightmares about coloring outside the lines?

Grade

If my life is like school with my skills and attributes as classes, it is becoming increasingly clear that I would be earning an unsatisfactory grade, like an F or maybe a D-. Instead of chemistry and math, I have physical fitness, motherhood, wifeness, and cooking.

Maybe I should study more. I wonder if I will be held back. Maybe I can fake illness in the nurse's office.

Baked Cries

Lily's Attempt at Cooking Disaster #4,523

A few days ago,  I noticed that the bag of potatoes I had recently purchased had some nasty growing on some of the weak little ones.  I cleared out the bag, saving the non-effected bunch, and discarding the mold-infected ones.  I had this pile of potatoes on the counter, eyes looking at me, asking what fate would befall them.  

Just in case it needs to said, I have literally no cooking skills.  So, I did what I often do - looked up potato recipes online.  After discounting the complicated, time-consuming ones, I landed on baked fries.  What could be so hard about that?

As I started the french fry slicing process, it occurred to me that I might have more potatoes than the recipe intended.  But, true to form, I kept going, even though I knew this was going to turn out badly.  I kept cutting and the pile kept growing.  The recipe suggested I put the potatoes in a Ziploc, then add a few spices and oil and shake it up.  The final pile filled an entire gallon Ziploc bag, making the shaking impossible.  Oh well.  Then, in order to cut down on clean-up, I covered the baking sheet with foil, also not smart.  As I poured out the gallon of potato slices, I saw that I would need a second baking sheet.  Then I just sat back and waited to taste perfection.  I thought maybe I should turn them over half way through, but it made the situation much worse.  The fries were burnt to the foil and my turning them over tore them in half, leaving their butts stuck in place.  It was a big mess.  So I put them back in the oven and pretended nothing was going wrong.  

The timer finally rang and I got the two over-filled baking sheets out of the oven then piled a giant plate of them for Mark (always my test audience).  This was his dinner (yes, feel sorry for him now), a big plate of raw/burnt/nasty fries.   As punishment for poor cooking skills, I made myself eat a big plate too.  Then, I folded up the foil and tossed the rest of the gallon in the garbage.  

I don't know which is the worse fate for the potatoes, mold or death by burning.

If you would like the recipe for the fries below, I'll email it to you.

   

Letter

Dear GE Spacemaker Laundry Stackable in my kitchen,

While I appreciate you for attempting to clean my clothes all the time, I must tell you that I think I hate you. I think it is ridiculous that you can't wash the flat and fitted king size sheets at the same time. Why must I always stand in front of you during the spin cycle and rearrange the clothes so you don't jump across the floor? Why does the dryer require one full cycle plus 3o minutes to dry a simple load? Is wanting you to do your job correctly asking too much?

If this keeps up, I might be forced to take serious action. Let this be your warning.

By the way, you are ugly.

Love,
Lily

History of Clinton

I've been thinking a lot about marriage lately. Maybe it's because I just celebrated my fourth anniversary last week, or maybe because it is the summer, which is notoriously wedding season.

While four years is not much, it has been packed for us. It feels like more because Mark and I dated for many years before getting married. The following in a history of our married life.

About the wedding. I have never been one of those girls that was so caught up in the wedding day that I run around screaming at people and then end up crying in the bathroom. Mark helped with all the planning, I picked out my dress, bridesmaid dresses, and the reception location in the first weekend (we had only 3 months to plan, so everything had to be a miracle). We were laid back. Then, predictably, many things went wrong on the day of. My hair had so many fly-aways (on the most humid of July days) that I looked like I had a swarm of gnats above my head (I warned the hair girl that she had no idea what she was dealing with). Then, at the church, when I stepped into my dress (as everyone snapped their cameras at me in my underwear), I was surprised to discover that the small alteration taken after my last fitting was really quite extreme. The cameras kept snapping as my sister tried with all her might to get my dress zipped. Then in an act that I still believe might be sabotage, the air conditioning didn't seem to be turned on during the ceremony. I tend to be a heavy sweater, so I had to keep wiping and sweating all over the stage. Also, the unity candle didn't light. And the list goes on.

The reception was an excellent time of dinner and dancing, even with the deejay who made many awkward microphone comments and repeatedly played songs off the "forbidden" list. On our way out, while we were saying our final goodbyes, we witnessed someone vomiting on the dance floor. Then, the room cleared.

All of these events could add up to be disastrous for some, but not us. We kept laughing and ended up having a great day.

We started our marriage with a honeymoon in Mexico. Of course, on the first day, I was stung by a jellyfish in the ocean and Mark got a serious sunburn. I also noticed a group of young ladies without bikini tops camped out on the chairs right next to Mark. The rest of the time was filled with free drinks and unlimited food. Then for Mark on the way home, unlimited diarrhea. As you can imagine, the plane ride home was not pleasant. The sickness hung on for our road trip across the country days later. We were moving from Illinois to Utah (twenty-four hours of driving). My sister drove with me in the front, while Mark was smashed, uncomfortably in the back with a TV and many of our other worldly possessions. His fitful sleep was interrupted by a flat tire and the need to clear our trunk of the loaded junk to get to the spare.

Once in Utah, we installed ourselves an apartment for a year that was halfway underground. During this time, we ate fish sticks, tator tots and corn dogs (not a lot different from now) daily and tried to not starve. When our lease ended, we bought a townhouse and (briefly) lived like the rich. A month later, I was surprised to find out I was pregnant.

Eli was born in May 2006 and due to new expenses, we sold and moved out of our house in November. We took up residence in my in-laws, unfinished, unheated (yet incredibly spacious) basement. A few months later, I quit my job and became a stay-at-home mom. Six months later, we moved back to Illinois.

In Illinois, we had made a hasty weekend decision to buy another townhouse, only this one was small, in a bad neighborhood and inhabited by small ants. Now a year later, we are trying sell this townhouse and buy a slightly bigger, freestanding house.

There it is, a recap of the last four years. What I left out in all those details is that we have had more than our share of laughs together. We love each other. I do admit that we sometimes annoy each other and we have a messy house, but the man I share my life with is one I know better than anyone. We have been through deaths, through new life, through the messy and the neat. We have made great friends and probably some enemies (more me than him). Mark makes me a better (less negative) person, and potentially a better golfer.

Maybe no one envies us and our idea of romance can be purchased in the clearance aisles of Walgreen's. But I am committed to him, and he to me. We are committed to our family and our faith in God. We share a son, Eli, who we believe is better than all the other kids.

So, yes, four years of marriage isn't really that many, but I feel lucky to have them. And while there are sure to be more problems, poverty and trials, I say, bring on forty more years!

Musically Declined

If you called me flippant, you might be right. This is evident in many of my hobbies. I single-mindedly apply myself to a task for a solid block of time and then I tire of it and move onto the next hobby. The same has been true of my relationship with music since the beginning of my existence. I, like most of the world, long to be an accomplished musician, but like so many others, have no musical talent whatsoever.

My mother, hoping to unearth a talented individual, signed me up for private and group piano lessons at Illinois Wesleyan at about 8 or 10 years old. My sister was also a part of this experiment. I would have to go early, while Ariana had her lesson, and wait for mine. During this time, I would look around for interesting things to do for the 30 minutes of wait time. I would use the pay phone to repeatedly call the operator and ask for phone numbers of my friends. I don't know why this would be interesting, but I did it. Then I would get on the floor and look for change under the vending machines. We were sugar-deprived children and I was looking to hit up the snacks. I would occasionally bring my change from home, but it was often made up of mostly pennies. As many buyers are aware, vending machines don't take pennies. One day, I was desperate for Twinkies, and I had a handful of pennies. I asked a passerby if they could give me a quarter for all the pennies I had. The man looked at me and asked why I wanted the quarter (he must have seen me rooting around under the machines for change). I quickly pulled out a lie from my pack of deception. I told him I needed to buy an eraser from my piano teacher and she told me she didn't want my pennies (as if any teacher in the world would say that to their student). He lifted an eyebrow[n] and gave me the quarter, but told me to keep my pennies. I watched him walk around the corner and then made a dash to the vending machine.

During these private lessons, I was often scolded for my lack of progress and the length of my fingernails. I refused to cut them. The teacher finally brought in nail clippers and cut them herself. In the group lessons, I fell behind the other prodigy students and could not perform with the rest of the group. We had electric pianos that the teacher could plug into and listen to an individual play. During these times, I would just switch my piano off and pretend to play with the rest. She never said anything about it. No harm, no foul.

It was not very surprising when they sent a letter to my mom indicating that I was on probation. Then another followed - double probation. Finally, I was kicked out. Dang.

After that debacle and waste of money, I didn't attempt to conquer the piano again until college. I signed up for private lessons my senior year. At the end of the semester, the teacher told me it might be better if I stuck to playing songs I had heard before.

That same semester (masochistically), I also signed up for guitar lessons. I had bought a red guitar one day because it matched my purse and I dreamed of playing it and entertaining crowds. The first day of lessons, my teacher (who was ranked as a Grand Master), eyed my red acoustic guitar and informed me that these were going to be classical guitar lessons. I shrugged and we began a semester-long tug-of-war, with me trying to distract him with funny stories and him trying to make me play the guitar. The last day of class, I still couldn't play Greensleeves. He gave me a "B" and I was angry. He was a very interesting, and easily distracted individual.

After all of these failures, you would think that I would have thrown in the red guitar. But no, here I am again, about to be 27 years old, and picking up that dang red guitar with dreams of entertaining again. So far it isn't going as well as expected. But you might hear me on the radio very soon.

So they say...

You are what you eat.  I must be a nectarine with a huge buttcrack.

Free Samples!

Today, while in Sam's Club on a Saturday morning, I was met with a throng of shoppers rushing around like little ants. I was on my cell phone for the first 5 minutes of the trip so I found myself walking around aimlessly, bumping into people without getting anything done. After the call ended, I realized why there were so many people milling about. It was like a Free Sample heaven! There were two booths set up on every corner and people were flocking to gather up the perks. Unfortunately, I had just come from a large breakfast so I wasn't able to enjoy the offerings. Instead, I was annoyed with people diving in front of my cart as I wandered around.

I must admit, even though I was overstuffed with pancakes, two booths called out to me and tempted me with their calories. One was polish sausage (of course) and the other was the frozen cream puff.

I stopped at the cream puffs and picked up one and popped it in my mouth before turning back to my cart. Before I could take my first step away, another cart, driven by a woman who must have been near starvation (though she didn't appear to be emaciated), barreled toward the cream puff stand with her giant cart and caught my heel with her cart. This was not a mere tap, and my flip-flopped feet had no heel protection. The blow was such that it caused me to involuntarily cry out in pain. She said, "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!" I told her it was fine and walked around the corner before I examined the injury. My heel was scraped and showed signs of blood.

You have got to be kidding me! Over a free cream puff!! If it was a free ho-ho, I could understand the need for the rush...

Procrastination

I know very well that I should be cleaning the heck out of my house right now.  There is laundry on the stairs that needs to be put away, and miscellaneous junk on every standing fixture.  But, as usual, I am looking for other things to turn my attention to, like writing this blog.  

I considered watching my novela, Fuego en la Sangre, but in act of total defiance earlier, Eli chucked the cable remote behind the most unreachable part of our sectional couch.  Now all is lost and I am going to have to cancel our cable service.  

I'm including an out of focus view of the lost remote, and some other things that have been plunged down into the abyss behind the couch.  

Quick change

In an act that is in no way out of character for me, I accidentally walked into the men's bathroom today at Panera. I didn't even look at the sign, I just charged right in. The first thing that hit me was there was only one stall. I thought that was strange because I could have sworn that there were two last time. Then, my eyes focused on a low, weird-looking porcelain fixture. Ahh! A urinal! I literally turned and ran out of the bathroom and back into the populated restaurant. I quickly surveyed the room to see if any had observed my slip up. No one was looking at me, so I casually made my way into the next door. No harm, no foul.

I did the same thing many years ago, only at a health club. The men's locker room was much more highly trafficked and more graphic. It took me about 2 minutes to realize why my clothes weren't in my locker, and then another 3 seconds to notice I was surrounded by half-dressed men.

Maybe I should pay more attention.

Rainy days and Sat-days always get me down

There are some days you wake up and know things just will not be going your way. Take yesterday for instance. Eli woke up really early (5:30 am) but seemed to be just sitting in his crib, so I fell back asleep for an hour or so. Then, I finally pulled myself out of bed to take a shower. This has to be done daily before everyone wakes up, or it will never happen. Moments after getting out of the shower, I heard "Ummm, Lily, we might have a problem in here" from Mark. Eli came running my way and so did a strong smell. I was warned against picking him up due to a mess all over his pants and limbs. It seemed as though all the high-fiber foods I had been feeding him for 3 days straight decided to make a quick exit that morning in his crib. My freshly washed hands had to pick up the stink-bomb and take him to the bathroom where I found it necessary to strip him in the tub, just to minimize the mess. Without being too graphic, I will tell you that there was not an inch of that diaper that had not been overworked, or his pants for that matter. After a total body wipe-down and over a thousand wipes used, he was ready to be steeped in the tub for an hour.

That was the beginning of my day, below is a picture of how I brought my evening to a close.

Potty Training- Day 1

You scream, I scream, we all scream to pee the latrine.

Talk about a kid that is interested in literally everything in the room, minus the potty.  There are some indications here of an overactive child.  I might be misreading the signs though...

Doggin' It

About a month ago, in the midst of multi-tasking, I mistakenly cooked my corn dog (lunch) for 35 seconds instead of  the required 70.  While you are sitting there thinking I must be an idiot, consider this:  it is not that hard to lose track.  Microwave 35 seconds, rotate, then another 35 seconds.  After doing this more than one time, all of the 35 seconds blend together.  I went to the bathroom after the first 35 seconds on the second corn dog, washed my hands and then came to stand in front of the microwave.  I thought hard about whether one 35 seconds had passed or two.  It seemed to me the ramifications of overcooking a corn dog were much more serious than undercooking (I imagined an explosion and lingering hot dog smells), so I gambled and took the "dog" out of the microwave and salivated.  

I sat down on the couch with a cold drink and prepared to enjoy the savory meal.  Then I bit into a cold, nasty hot dog on a stick.  Dang It!  It was only 35 seconds!  Rather than spit it out, I chewed and forced down the clammy bite (I have manners, even if I am alone).  The impression was such that I threw away the rest of the corn dog (after eating a little more of the warm breading) and mentally removed the corn dog from our menu.  I even went so far as to take the sign down from our front door that read, "As for me and my family, we will eat corn dogs."  

A month later, the scars still remained.  But today, my hunger came in washed away my fear and dread of the cold, nasty hot dog taste in my mouth.  I went for the freezer and pulled out the corn dog.  This time I made a mark on a piece of paper, signifying each 35 second interval, while cooking the "dogs" for my husband and me.  This time, there were no mistakes.  I had perfected the art of microwaving multiple corn dogs (each separately, of course).  Suddenly my life has taken on new meaning...

Really, giving up corn dogs forever?  That's just crazy!

glorious seconds

I don't get outside during the day nearly as much as I'd like.  But sometimes when I do - if only to check the mail or throw the garbage out, there are times when it feels just glorious.  Take today for example.  The sun is shining and there is a strong, warm breeze blowing.  I like to stand there, for a few seconds and close my eyes.  My body feels so nice and relaxed and I think, this may be one of the best feelings in the world.  I could lie down in the grass and sleep (of course if I did that, I would be thinking of all the bugs crawling on me and I'd start to itch).  I take a deep breath of the fresh Midwest air and let the sun warm my face, without feeling hot.  I want to stand here forever, I think.  But then I go back inside, and do something that is not quite so glorious, like put away laundry.  

If I had a lawn to mow, I would mow it today and take pleasure in it.  

          

Greaser

Recently I have noticed that nearly all the shirts and pants I own have huge grease stains on them. I see the stains as I am folding my laundry. I think they are permanent and I find it quite irritating. There are only two possible explanations for this. One: there has been an oil spill in my dryer and it is saturating my clothes or Two: My diet is made up of entirely two many greasy foods and I am an extremely clumsy eater.

I wonder which one is more likely...