Claw It Up

Everybody has something they do extremely well.  As I've said in the past, I am excellent at killing craphead flies that sneak into my house using a kitchen towel as my fierce weapon.  But aside from that, I am uncommonly good at winning stuffed animals out of the Grab Claw glass-box games.  I bet I have won over 20 prizes in my life (I'm having trouble estimating the number, this is a conservative estimation), and take into consideration that I play very rarely.  Tonight, with only two chances, I pulled out a hot pink animal that looks like a squirrel with no tail from the movie theater arcade.  We were too early for our movie so naturally, like junior high kids, we made our way the arcade and played a game each.  Mark played the gun shooting game and of course I went right to the claw.  My hand/eye coordination (which may not always get the respect it deserves) did not fail me tonight.  I am including photographic evidence of my victory.  Please excuse the blurry nature of the picture from my cell phone.  I think I was intimidating  the lens with my awesomeness.

Ante Up

There are a number of things in life that can instantly enrage me.  Some of them seem awfully foolish to anyone but me.  For instance, I can go from perfectly happy to irate if my ears become clogged and I can't hear what is going on around me.  I don't know why but this infuriates me.  My reaction to it is particularly annoying to my sister who thinks I start acting nuts.  Also, when I find Lorenzo downstairs mercilessly humping one of my children's toys, I fly off the handle and chase him around the house looking for an opportunity to break my foot off in his dirty little butt.

Another thing (and perhaps a more reasonable one) that sends me through the roof is finding a group of insects inhabiting my house.  When I find them (as long as my impressionable son isn't observing) I scream obscenities and then instantly start itching and imagine them crawling all over me.  Lately, we have had an outbreak of small ants popping up in unwelcome places.  I put out the really mean ant-killing baits and watched their cadavers pile up in my downstairs bathroom but the rest of the little bastards seemed to have migrated into my living room to avoid further casualty.  Many times in the last week, I have been minding my own business, sitting on the couch, watching TV when one of these little idiots walks right up to me and expects me to share the space.  What he gets for his trouble is a good scolding followed by a ruthless slaughter (I know, this goes against the bug-loving pacificity I have been instilling in my son).  Tonight, when I was fruitlessly looking around for a knitting tool that I seemed to have lost again (yes, I have the hobbies of an 80-year-old), I lifted the couch cushion and found a few old items of food (thank you, Eli) and a handful of ants feasting on them.  Once again, the rage erupted followed quickly by revulsion.  No wonder there have been ants crawling on me on the couch!  They live in there!  YUCK!

I might take this moment to mention that because of our daughter's terrible sleeping habits, her crib is still firmly planted in our room, inches from our bed.  Since we have only a two bedroom townhouse to call home, and her crying ways at night would be extremely disruptive to Eli (who's sleep patterns determine his immediate health), she has become our roommate for nearly the last year.  And now that she is teething and manipulating us with her cries at night, she has successfully driven both her parents from their bedroom.  For the last week or so, we have both been sleeping on the couch in the living room.  This might seem more acceptable if the couch was a sleeper and not an L-shaped sectional with room for a 5 foot person on one side and a 3 foot person on the other.  Yes, this is the very same couch that is home to a colony of small ants.  Picture my rage growing, even as I write this.

To exterminate our unwelcome bedfellows, I got out the spray can of some kind of Enviro-conscious bug killer that uses natural oils (cue Billy the Exterminator, aka Eli's new best friend) and sprayed down the couch, knowing full well that in less than an hour, I would be inhaling these fumes.  It is very likely that I will wake up with brain damage in the morning.

If I hear Lorenzo humping anything while I'm sleeping on ant corpses and bathing in chemicals, I might just lose it and end up kicking Mark in the face (after all, his face is inches from my feet on his side of the  5 foot "L").  Then I'm going outside to sleep in my car.

Foodies Beware!

It's no secret that I may not be the best or brightest of cooks.  I often find it difficult to think of recipes and even more difficult to find food in our supply that fits into any of those recipes.  I tend to be a leap-before-you-look type of chef.  If I feel motivated enough to try to prepare a meal for my hungry family before I go to work, I often feel discouraged when I open the cabinet to find only cans of tuna and boxes of stale cornbread.  So, instead of fighting and failing, I give up and tell Mark to make eggs again for dinner while I'm gone.  (I do realize that there will never be any food unless I buy it from the grocery store, but I can never think when I'm there).

Today, fueled by a sudden surge of compassion for my family mixed with a waved of domestication, I decided to make dinner while the kids were napping.  Of course, by the time they were both sleeping simultaneously, it was only 40 minutes before I needed to leave for work.  And just like always, I stood in front of the food cabinet, waiting for inspiration.  I had already thawed some chicken, but I couldn't find any type of sauce for it, so I put it in the fridge for tomorrow's food adventure (which will likely be a story about chicken as dry as wood).  Then my eyes landed on the can of tuna.  Yes, of course!  I would create a Tunarrific tuna salad and pair it with au gratin potatoes from a box (a fantastic pairing!).  With skills like these, maybe I should write a cookbook and open a restaurant.

Unfortunately, not long after boiling the noodles and opening the can of tuna, I realized that I had no peas or really anything else that would logically go into a tuna salad.  So, using my skills of improvisation, I located a carrot and chopped it up and threw it in the bowl.  What else?  Some mayo.  Then there were some onions that seemed like a good idea but of course they were all rotten and had to be thrown away.  So there it was, tuna salad made of oddly shaped noodles (I don't know why I would have bought them), canned tuna, and chopped carrots mixed with generic mayonnaise.  When it looked very pathetic, even to me, I decided to add a few shakes of salt, pepper, and onion powder (next best thing to the fresh, right?)  and Ta-Da!  dinner was prepared.

When I came home from work, I found the bowl just about as full as when I left it.  Eli had eaten his portion, though he refused to eat the box au gratin potatoes and it seems as if Mark has vetoed the entire meal.  Hmmm, maybe it will be better on day two...

For more of my recipes, check your local bookstore for my best-selling cookbook, "Gut Busting and Butt Bursting Discomfort Foods".  This recipe will be on the cover.  Although at a glance, it may be confused for a modern art book...

I am the Wimp Pimp

I will admit that I am a wimp about a lot of things.  I don't like to eat food out of people's gardens because I always think there are bugs inside.  I know, that is totally ridiculous and the home vegetable is probably better for me than than the chemical laden one sold at the grocery store, but I can't help it (I bet I could actually help it...)  I don't like to sleep outdoors because I feel like bugs are crawling on me and biting me all night.  I also have an irrational fear of ticks and head lice.  I don't like to pee or poop in the woods because I think it's gross.  I don't eat bruised bananas or cheese that has mold on it.  I also don't eat Jello, but that's a whole other story.  Yes, all of these things make me a loser and wimpy.

This week, I have swallowed my distaste for running around and playing soccer with my son in wet grass without shoes on and how am I repaid for it? I step in dog poop and get a rash (presumably from the grass chemicals and not the poop).

So should I keep branching out and losing my wimpy ways?  Only if I enjoy poop squished between my toes or eating caterpillars in my corn.

The Clintons Take Utah

So here we are on vacation in Utah.  It has been a great time so far spent with family and friends.  We are a little low on sleep, thanks to our little stinker, Marina.  We discovered shortly after we arrived that she had some top teeth coming through.  During the day, she doesn't seem to even notice any discomfort, but at night, she flips the switch and decides that no one should sleep.  I think we have a little Gremlin on our hands.  She is cute and lovable all day, but then someone gives her a drink of water after midnight and she is up attacking people all night.

In the two weeks that we have been here, Marina has advanced in leaps and bounds.  As I said earlier, she is getting her top teeth (though one at a time, so she looks a little bit like trash) but also, she decided after we got here that she wanted to stand up and push this toy baby stroller all over the room; if you remove her, you will get an earful.  And another thing, she has spontaneously started speaking, uttering "Uh-Ohs" and "All Dones" with her curiously deep voice.  And she is also working on an impressive mullet of blondish hair (how in the world do my kids have blond hair?).

And then there is my boy... Eli has actually been rather well behaved here in Utah, although he is singing to himself in his room instead of napping as I type this.  He has had his usual ridiculous moments like loudly asking me how my boobies are feeling while we were having lunch with my former boss today.

But as usual, a bit of drama has found me here in Utah.  I got a text from my sister yesterday saying our butthead cat, Lorenzo, had savagely bitten her when she refused to give him a bit of attention that he craved.  As with most cat bites, her wound looked bacteria-filled instantly so she was forced to go to the doctor.  At Prompt Care, she was required to fill out some paper work pertaining to the animal bite.  It asked all kinds of information about the cat that had bitten her.  She called to warn me and I told her it was fine.  Then today, I got a message from an unknown number.  It was animal control calling to tell me that they received a report of our cat biting a human and there were a number of requirements that we would be forced to meet in order to comply with county procedures.  I would need to get my cat to a vet within 24 hours of the bite and have him accessed.  Then I would need to lock up my cat in a 10-day confinement, either at the vet's office or within my home, in a quarantine type of situation.  During that 10 days, he would need to be locked up anytime an outsider came into the house.  Then at the end of the 10 days, I need to bring him back to the vet to be re-evaluated and they would report back to animal control.  I called them back to ask if they were really serious.  Yes they were.  They did agree to wait until I get home before requiring me to take Lorenzo to the first vet evaluation.  I understand that you can't have animals running around biting people but for Pete's sake!  So, as soon as I get home, we have to once again add more dollars (that we don't have) to Lorenzo's liability.  Stupid cats!  But I am standing firm against Mark's suggestion that we should just put him down, though if he bites someone else, I'm not sure if my objections will be heeded... Maybe I should ask the vet if anything can be done about his unabashed blanket humping tendency while I'm at it.

I must get back to our destruction of someone else's house.



 

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

Lately my son, Eli, has been rather consumed with the thought of his mommy and daddy dying.  I think he must have seen something in a movie at some point that got the ball rolling in his head.  Each night when we put him to bed, we always lie around and talk a little bit before I leave the room.  About a month ago, out of no where, he asked me if I was going to die.  I paused a moment and said, yes, eventually I will.  He asked me what would happen to me after I die.  I told him I would be going to heaven.  He thought some more and then asked me if daddy was going to die.  I gave him the same answer that yes, eventually he, too, would die and go to heaven.  Then my poor boy's eyes got big and his voice shook while he told me that if I die and Daddy dies, then he will be all alone.  I told him that was not true, he would still have the cats...

This conversation, with a few variances has taken place a number of times since then.

Tonight, while I was out having a chat-fest with some good friends, I got a message on my cell phone from Mark.  He wanted to relate to me the details of his night-time conversation with Eli.  It went something like this:

Eli:  Daddy, when Mommy dies, will you stay with me?
Mark:  Yes.
Eli:  Where will she go?
Mark:  Heaven.
Eli:  Where will you and I go when we die?
Mark:  We will go to heaven too.
Eli:  Will we see Mommy there?
Mark:  Yes.
Pause.
Eli:  Do we go to the bathroom in heaven?
Mark:  Hmm... I don't know.  Maybe there is a special place to go.  (Eli asked me this same question last night and I told him no, we won't go to the bathroom there)
Eli:  I don't think we do go to the bathroom in heaven.  I think our wieners roll up.

He then goes on to demonstrate with a hand motion how the roll up would take place.  

Sometimes I wonder how my child turned out to be a bit odd, but then I realize that with parents like his, he had a 50/50 chance to turn out normal (I'm not saying which parent is projecting normal and which is crazy) and it looks like he rolled the snake eyes.

So watch out for the ole' wiener roll-up!  You better hope there is no need to go to the bathroom in heaven, or there might be a terrible mess.

Suit Yourself

If you want to boost your self-confidence and sanity, it is important that you go swim suit shopping in July after all the sales have swept through and make sure you are accompanied by two tired children.

I probably went into 6 stores today searching for an acceptable bathing suit but there was none to be found.  The only things left were the string bikinis (yeah right!  I'm not in high school!) and the XS sizes.  I even went so far as to try on suits in three different stores (which is extremely rare for me.  I'm more of the buy and try it kind of thinker).  The fitting rooms were a bit difficult to navigate with a jogging stroller (with a flat tire so it pulls hard to the left while you push it) and a 4-year-old who wanted to hide in the clothes racks so he jump out and scare people as they walked by.  I had to find the handicap fitting room just to manage with my entourage.  Then, of course, there was a running commentary while I tried on suits like,"Why is that one so tight?" and  "Why do you have that Band-Aid on your bootie?" (I had to have a suspicious mole removed from my thigh.  I didn't have any cosmetic surgery done.)  We had to skip Marina's nap time to shop, so she was whining for the entirety of the adventure.  And I was asking myself why the heck I was putting myself through this emotional anguish.

At the end of the shopping day, there was nary a suit to be found.  I drove us back home sweating, with my shoulders slumped, wishing I would go buy a doughnut.  So, it looks like I am going to have to be one of those trashy people who gets yelled at by the life guard for wearing cut-off jean shorts in the pool.

Spelling Errors

In an effort to keep my preschooler from repeating offensive words and shocking and disgusting onlookers (or onhearers?), I have taken to spelling out words when the need to utter them strikes.  My sister would argue that I should eradicate such terms from my vocabulary (the old 'muerto el perro se acaba la rabia' thinking), but these things take time and we are still in the gray area.

So now, it is not uncommon in my house to hear "Lorenzo, if I see you hump one more article of clothing on the floor, I am going to whoop your A-S-S!" (Lorenzo's humping tendencies are a whole other annoying story)

This plan seemed quite brilliant until we were driving along and I was telling my sister something that necessitated the spelling of S-H-*-T and a second later a little voice repeated the spelling from the backseat.

Oh geez, I guess that is it.  I am going to have to resort to saying things like "Oh my Heck" and "I'm going to kick your wagon!"

Doggonit!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

During lunch today, after I made a joke about having a jelly butt, Eli looked at me seriously and said, "No Mommy, you don't have a jelly butt, you have a jelly belly!"  I told him that his statement was probably more accurate since I have been cursed with Flat Glutes Disease.  

Then, when I told him that I was going to cut my hair off and asked if he thought I would look more beautiful, he told me I would only look beautiful if I put my make-up on and if I didn't, I would look ugly.  My goodness, this kid really listens to everything that comes out of my mouth! 

And finally, here is a telling moment.  I announced that I needed to clean the kitchen and mop the floor and Eli responded with "What's a mop, Mommy?"  It seems that a 4-year-old should be able to accurately identify one.  

That tells you just how many times he has seen me mop the floor.  Good thing I didn't mention anything about shaving my legs...

Weekend Warriors

A quick (or perhaps not quick at all) recap from the events that surround the Clinton family:

This past weekend, my little family journeyed over to Northern Indiana for my aunt's wedding.  We were a bit rushed due to some junky mapquest directions that were blatantly wrong.  We had a mere 10 minutes to get changed at the hotel before we had to run to car and drive like mad just to rush into the church before the bride.  I was a little nervous about having two ants-in-their-pants kids in church during a wedding.  They seated us at the front with the family and I just prayed it would all come out smoothly.  And it did, in a matter of speaking.

Mark was feeding Marina a bottle in order to keep her from yelling and making all her baby sounds during the ceremony.  We were all still standing after the bride walked in and the pastor immediately went into the vows.  After the first "I do" there was a moment of silence during which Marina let out the loudest fart ever.  Everyone around heard it and we were all trying to silently laugh without disturbing the peace.  The ceremony continued on.  The wedding couple went over to light the unity candle and we observed in silence until BAM, there it was again.  Marina dropped another bomb.  I told Mark he better sit down with her since her sounds were trumpeting all over the church.  I'm pretty sure farting in church might be a sin.

Later, at the reception, Eli turned into a dancing machine.  During every song that played he wanted to run out to the dance floor and groove like he was getting paid for it.  He wouldn't allow anyone to dance with him; this was a solo act and he didn't care how many people he ran into.  He even wanted to be out there during the father-daughter dance.  He danced until he got a stitch in his side and I pulled him from the floor for fear that he would puke his dinner all over the many guests.

Back at the hotel, night fell and Marina decided she only wanted to sleep in the hotel crib (which looks like something from a mental institution) for two hours and then she wanted to scream so the people in the adjoining room would be made aware of her presence (though I hardly felt bad since their brats were running and screaming in the halls when I was trying to fall asleep).  While I was trying to get Marina to rest, I had to sit in the darkness and blindly feel around for the fast food I was eating as my late night snack.  In the morning, I found french fries in my bed, next to Marina who had screamed until I gave in and let her accompany me there. 

When the morning finally came, my rumpled family marched downstairs to the complimentary breakfast.  Eli was eating his yogurt when he got a funny look on his face.  Mark took him to the bathroom.  When they came back, Eli announced very loudly that he thought he was going to throw up but then a huge burp came out.  People like to hear such news when they are enjoying their breakfast.  He seemed better for a few minutes but then started acting oddly again.  We thought it best to hustle back up to our room where we sat and waited to see if Eli was going to be sick. After about an hour, we needed to get in the car and drive the 3-1/2 hours to get home.  Armed with the liner from the ice bucket, we marched out to our car and prayed that we would have an uneventful ride. The last thing you want on a road trip is a puke fountain coming from your back seat.

I think I have mentioned in the past that I have a certain amount of anxiety about vomit.  If I think someone is going to puke, I start sweating and panicking about it.  I can't relax.  As I was driving, it wasn't convenient for me to keep turning back and looking at Eli as he watched his movie, just to check for signs of illness, but I tried it anyway.  As I drove on, the weather outside looked menacing and I could tell that about a 1/2 mile up the road it was raining.  Seconds later, there was a drip, drip drip, then whoosh!  Down came an extreme downpour.  I couldn't see the lines on the road or any of the other cars driving a few feet from me.  Our windshield wipers (that were falling apart) were going full blast and I was in full concentration mode.  I tend to get overwhelmed when too much is happening at once.  As I was trying to focus on not killing everyone, Eli start demanding "Drive faster!  Drive faster!" over and over.  It was too much.  I felt like it was a movie, all that was missing was someone sitting behind me pulling my hair and covering my eyes.  The blinding rain continued for more than ten minutes (or an hour in my mind) and then finally we were safe.  Afterward, I realized that it was a nice (or not so nice) little distraction from my obsessive worry about getting hit with puke from behind.  With an hour left in our trip, Eli even got his color back and all was right with the world again.  Screaming Mimi (aka Marina) even had a pretty good road trip, that is after we realized she was starving and gave her a bottle. Oops.

Next week we travel on an airplane to Utah.  I am a little uneasy about the plane ride since Marina can't sit still for 5 minutes straight and Eli is always getting sick at very inconvenient times.  Good thing I never stress out about anything.  But at least there is no shortage of material for my blog.  There I go again, always being so stinking positive.  I should make t-shirts.