Stage Freak

If I had to take a broad look at this blog and pull out the overarching themes, I'd say that my neurosis is fairly prevalent.  I have an advanced freak-out mode that normal people don't possess.

Let me share yet another look into my brain so the next time you see me, you can just walk by and shake your head.  

All kinds of things give me irrational stress.  I don't like to go anywhere unless I know exactly where I'm going.  I feel uncomfortable reading aloud in public - probably stemming from an unfortunate pig-on instead of pigeon pronunciation in 6th grade.  I don't like cooking/baking any kind of food that will be consumed by a group of people; I'm paranoid I will either disgust them or make them sick somehow.  

And then there is the biggest one of all.  The one that comes around only once a year or so.  I go into freak-out mode when my child performs in public.  This is so irrational; I feel silly even typing it.  

Last night Eli had his school Christmas concert.  All of the grade school put on a musical/play which required them to stand on stage for a full hour.  Some kids had speaking parts, the rest were the singers.  Eli was in the front row, right behind the microphones for the kids with lines.  On our way to the school, Eli was telling us how scared and nervous he was to be on the stage with everyone looking at him.  I tried to reassure him, even though I was probably just as nervous.  

What am I so nervous about, you ask?  I'm nervous my kid is going to puke.  This is the third year we have had some kind of public performance for him and every time I go through the same thing.  Why is this my fear?  I have no idea.  This year was by far the worst for me for the following reasons:  it was the first year his performance was longer than 10 minutes, the school was being hit by a rampant flu that got mention before the performance started, and worst of all, Marina had the pukes four days ago. 

If my mind already struggles with this thought, you can bet it was magnified with the additional puke-inviting factors.  After he got on stage (front row, remember), Eli was so nervous, he didn't know what to do with his hands.  He was fluttering them all over, grabbing at his shirt, putting them behind his back, and grabbing his stomach (this one about put me over).  He fidgeted for the entire performance.  I kept leaning over to Mark saying, "I think he looks pale,"  or "I think Eli has to go to the bathroom," or "Why does he keep holding his stomach!?"  I couldn't believe they had so many songs left to sing when I was having a panic meltdown...totally out of control.  I was a real life deodorant commercial.  

Finally they all marched off the stage and I thought, "Phew, now he can at least puke in the hallway instead of in front of hundreds of parents or in the exact place where the actors are performing."  Turns out he was totally fine.  No sickness.  Just the fidgets of a 6-year-old boy who was forced to stand in one place for an hour, while being watched by hundreds of people.  

I gave myself a stern talking-to after this experience.  Lily, stop being such a freak!  I'm pretty sure this pep talk took care of the problem.  Either that, or I will show up to his next performance drunk.    

It's pretty safe to assume I'll never be one of those pageant moms.  

I Spy a Lullaby

At least once a month one of my kids will do something cute that I want to catch on video.  I'll pull out my cell phone to start filming and instantly the switch flips:  my kids turn into giant hams.  They then harass me into making another video then another.  Typically only the first video is good, the rest are just some ridiculous jumping and screaming.

We do a lot of bedtime songs here.  We have a well-rounded selection, ranging from Disney songs to church/Sunday school songs to show tunes.  We have enough repeats that the kids memorize them and we can have sing-alongs featuring a cappella (You know, singing with no instruments), three-part harmonizations and endless runs.  Take that, Ariel, you've got nothing on us.  

Tonight, Marina monopolized the cell phone video with her beautiful, angelic voice.  I felt the need to share these, in case you were having trouble sleeping and wanted someone to sing you into a gentle slumber.  

(In case you need help with the identification, this is "Reflection" from Mulan.)

(This is "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus" from a church hymnal somewhere.  

Ignore the word prompt in the middle performed by Celine Dion.  She asked not to be mentioned.)

First Rate Update

Lately I keep inadvertently (or perhaps advertently - why isn't this a word?) acting irresponsibly.  I'm truant on my emails, this blog has been somewhat neglected and I haven't bathed my children in three weeks (at least one of these statements isn't entirely true).  I wish there was an awesome reason for this, like I've been too busy training for the marathon, but really it is just a case of major busyness/laziness.  

So here is a random collection of photos to summarize what life looks like lately.  

Yes, we are those people with pumpkins sitting in front of our house on December 13th.  I keep telling myself to get rid of them but then I always have to wait until garbage day for the disposal.  Tuesday morning rolls around, we start running and screaming and trying to jam everyone in the car while shoving vitamins in their mouths and reminding them to stay out of trouble.  So each week the pumpkins slip past us once again.  I could pick them up and put them in the house or garage, but at this point I don't want to touch the nasty things because they are probably mushy and rotten.  Thus the cycle continues and we have pumpkins sitting in front of our house in the middle of December.  

Who are those people who receive boxes and boxes of online Christmas orders but never bother to open them to check the contents until the day before the holiday and then realize they received someone else's junk?  That's us, the pumpkin people.  

Who recently ran into several coworkers and a handful of high school acquaintances early on a Saturday morning, wearing this (oh yeah and slept-in hair and makeup)?  I'll let you guess.

I found this at Wal-Mart.  I was really hoping I could think of someone to give it to.  I especially like the metal folding chair.  Mark's birthday is tomorrow...

I found this gem on my mom's Christmas tree.  

Planning and estimating really isn't my strong suit.  

This is my favorite picture ever taken.  Fat Linda is resting her slow brain under the fake Christmas tree, completely unaware that Lorenzo is hunting her from behind.  

My kids don't believe in Santa.  I take them to my work sponsored Santa visit anyway so we can claim the free kid presents each year.  They call him Fake Santa.  

Marina gave Fake Santa all kinds of attitude.  While she looks fairly docile here, immediately after this picture, Fake Santa asked her what she wanted for Christmas.  Marina was walking away; she stopped, glanced over her shoulder then kept walking.  Sorry Fake Santa, we have poor manners.

Speaking of poor manners, Mark and Marina decided to terrorize the friendly geese immediately after spurning Fake Santa.  That's how we roll...

So there it is.  An abstract view of our recent life.  Feel free to express your outrage about Fake Santa and pumpkins.

Peddling Wisdom

We’ve all heard the “If I knew then what I know now” phrase.  For some reason I was thinking about it today and laughing at myself from the past (see exhibit A).

Exhibit A

Here are some points that particularly stand out in my spectrum of regret.  Pardon the repeating “I can’t believes,” there are only so many synonyms for this and I’m supposed to be making dinner right now.  I've decided to number my list because I'm trying to convince you that I am supremely organized.

1.  I can’t believe anyone ever allowed me to babysit for them when I was in junior high and younger.  There would be no circumstance in which I would invite a child of that age to come to my house, rummage through my pantry and talk on my phone (realistically, this phone situation would hardly be an issue – maybe I should say use my protected Wi-Fi).  As a childcare provider, I had no idea what the heck I was doing.    

2.  I can’t believe I didn’t decide to try in school.  All that about the children being the future (R.I.P Whitney) and whatnot...   

3.  I’m shocked that my mom allowed me to go out of the house with my hair and accessories looking like I got attacked by Claire’s on my way to school.  There were times when I wore a ring on every one of my fingers.  I may have been trying for recruitment from a passing circus.  

4.  I can’t believe I ever thought this was appropriate behavior:  Visualize a summer job where I worked in the mail room.  In between mail carts, we would have “down” time.  Someone (possibly me) thought it was a good idea to stage an arm wrestling match.  Needless to say, the people who walked by our match did not appreciate our level of professionalism.  I'm feeling embarrassed just "saying" this aloud.  

5.  I can’t believe I got bored of reading the “if two trains left the station…” questions on the ACT and just guessed on most of them.  I'll give you a clue as to how I scored; the first time was shamefully low, the second time was 3 points lower.  Good thing I had that $125 a year in college for being half Hispanic.

6.  I can’t believe anyone hired me at Casual Corner to sell women’s suits when I was 17 years old, particularly when management had to talk to me about putting on some makeup every now and then so I would stop offending customers by looking like I just recovered from a two week bout of the flu.  

7.  I can’t believe I wore an ugly jean skirt to my rehearsal dinner (this hasn’t been troubling me for long – I just thought of it, it's totally lame).

8.  It's amazing that I let Mark convince me that we needed to adopt not one but two different cats with various behavior disorders.  

9.  For the first year of our marriage, we alternated between two different meals:  Asian Delight (I just googled this to make sure I wasn't saying something obscene.  Yikes!) - pot stickers and a huge bowl of Ramen, and Fried Goodness - fish sticks and tator tots.  Needless to say there were some weight issues that year:  I gained... Mark lost.  Wait, who am I kidding, we currently have all of these items in our freezer/pantry.  

Now, as an older, wiser woman, I can instruct future generations on how to avoid these childhood/young adult pitfalls.  I'm like Confucius ... or Phil Donahue.   

Holely Molely

I mentioned uninvited rodent guests in my last post.  Besides the obvious feline variety, we also have an outdoor tenant.  An unidentified pest has taken up residence below our porch slab in the backyard.  We first saw digging evidence several weeks ago.  There was a small tunnel in the rocks that ran below the slab.  When I noticed it, I pitched a fit and obsessed about it for 24 hours then, in typical Lily-fashion, forgot about it.  Many days later, when we were in the act of massacring (is this really how you spell this!?) one of our bushes, the hole was re-revealed.  Since Eli has an active knowledge of pest extermination from his serious TV viewing (see Call of the Wildman/Billy the Exterminator),  he was on the case.  He covered the hole with sticks, leaves, Marina's bubble container, and a boat.

A follow-up check indicated that the hole was active.  The animal had strewn the bubbles and leaves in all directions.

I started to think about the kind of animals that would invite to live in a hole under our concrete slab.  I imagined a passel of bunnies or a shivering cold kitty or even a little raccoon.  I decided that any one of these would be acceptable patio neighbors (yes, I've read Where the Red Fern Grows).  Unfortunately, vigorous internet research (of course) revealed that none of these snuggly animals dig holes through rocks to live under concrete.  The choices are more like rats, skunks, or marmots (these are beaver-looking things without the distinctive tail).  Similarly troubling are nasty opossums who live in holes that other animals dig (lazy!).  The level of acceptable pest is in direct proportion to the level of cuteness.  Rats, skunks, opossums are decidedly unwelcome.

This boiled on in the back of my brain for days.  We conducted several more hole-blocking tests to see if the pest would leave on its own.  Nope.  Then I had a brilliant idea ("If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it.  Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it.")  I devised a surveillance plan.  I needed to be sure there wasn't an orphaned family of cute animals hiding in the hole before I sealed off the mother's entrance.

Here was the plan:

Yep, that's my cell phone on a broomstick held fast with athletic pre-wrap.  I turned on the video camera with the flash illuminating the way.  I shoved the phone in the hole and blindly tried to capture the orphaned babies.  I found it puzzling that the broomstick kept going.  It never hit the end.  It was like a trip to Narnia in there.  Here is a video so you can see what we saw.  Pardon the vomit-inducing screen motion.  It's like when I saw the Blair Witch Project in the theater and had to step out to dry heave in the bathroom.  In my own defense, it is challenging to maintain a steady hand when operating a cell phone camera at the end of a 4-foot stick that is plunged underground.

What we learned from my video research:  a.) there were no orphaned baby animals hiding in the hole. b.) the hole was not so much a hole but more of a tunnel combined with ground that has settled far below the concrete.  c.) our concrete patio is literally suspended over nothing.  d.) we are going to have to impose a weight-restriction for all of our future patio guests.

So what now?  Who knows.  We still have an animal who moves our boat/bubble barricade daily and we still have a "patio situation".  I might throw a bunch of soiled kitty litter down the hole.  I read that pests can find this very offensive.  Also, this will give me a chance to get rid of the nasty litter.  Plus, if I keep this up long enough, our concrete slab can balance solely on crappy cat litter.  Win-win.

Mouse Hunter

The cold weather is here.  Everyone wants to take cover inside.  At night the cats burrow under our blankets in an attempt to annoy and overheat us.  

Also burrowing... a mouse.  Fortunately for us, he did not come searching for food and shelter in our house.  Unfortunately for my sister, he did find her house to be inviting.  She called me the other day after hearing some rustling in the closet with her water heater.  As usual, I went straight to the computer to look up plans of action.  I prescribed peppermint oil and cat hair (not mixed together).  What's the best way to scatter cat hair?  Bring in a cat, of course.  And who has a cat or two to spare?  I do!

The challenge then became which cat to send.  Lorenzo versus Linda.  Lorenzo has a hunting instinct but no claws and extreme vehicular anxiety.  Fat Linda has evil claws but no aggression or brain power.  In the end, I went with the cat that would give me the least trouble on the car ride over.

In order to accommodate the transport, I had to get her into a cage.  I didn't realize that she did not fit through the door.  I had to remove the top and wrestle her inside.  I think she exceeded the weight and girth allowance; she seemed to be touching every wall at once.  I was afraid to use the handle.

Luckily the trip over was very brief, or I think we might have lost the big girl.  I brought her into the mouse closet and released her.  She showed no interest.  She was too busy panicking and spraying her butt juice all over (sorry, I know that's gross... but truth is truth).  After giving her affection and telling her a story about soft pillows and bacon fat, I led her to the corner with mouse droppings.  She sniffed around for a moment and then decided to lie down on top of the little turds.  That was it.  That was the extent of her exterminating skills.  She didn't move.  Just sat there.  We decided to leave her in there for a little while so we could get food.  Fat Linda cried at the closet door, heedless of the mouse that was running around inside the walls.

Here is Fat Linda, lying on mouse poop, distracted by her reflection.  

Mouse hunting is hard work.

We came to pick her up, shoved her back in her box and took her back to the safety of her home.  No mice were harmed in the cat hair myth testing.

So... contrary to popular belief, not all cats were meant for hunting and removing mice.  The mouse in my sister's closet was probably feeling like Fievel in American Tail and singing about no cats in America.  He arranged transport out of the closet by stepping into a humane no-kill trap.  He was later released outside where he ran immediately to someone else's house.  He likely has no fear of cats now.  I wonder if he will tell all his mice friends about the idiotic cat who sat on his poop, then they will all come to my house and eat the Doritos out of our pantry.

Good grief, Fat Linda, you fail us again.

Stalling for Time

Many years ago, when Eli was just a young lad, this blog was filled with stories from his bathroom adventures.  Since then, he has matured and acquired a bit of tact.  He no longer talks about the carrots in his poop while we are in the Target stalls (remember this one?), nor does he make groaning, straining  sounds while in mixed bathroom company.  I'd say we've moved on.

But I'm happy to announce that Marina is just cycling into that stage.  What I have to present to you today is none other than a bathroom story starring my youngest little stinker.

I don't know if it is a characteristic of all kids or just mine but they seem to pick the most inconvenient times to do their "serious" bathroom business.   Yesterday after work we had an open house at the kids' school where we could meet their teachers and see their classrooms.  Moments after we walked into Eli's classroom, Marina started holding her tummy and showing the signs of eminent bowel activity.  Unfortunately, we were already in mid conversation with Eli's teacher.  I excused myself to take the little lady to the bathroom.  [On a side note, she must think we are a family plagued with intestinal woes.  Last week when I was at the school by chance during the day, Mark and I came upon Eli's class all lined up outside the bathrooms.  It seemed everyone had been in and out except Eli who was taking his sweet time.]

After a minute in the stall, it was clear we were going to be there for some duration.  Marina was insistent that she had to go to the bathroom but wanted first to have a conversation about the color of the stalls, the discomfort of the toilet seat under her, the price of corn futures, etc.  Since I heard a visitor enter the bathroom, I was trying to use my extra patient voice.  There was a metallic clanging of a cane that accompanied her walk.  She stepped into the deluxe stall right next to us.  Marina suddenly paused all conversation.  There was a tense moment of silence before the visitor released a shameless storm right next to us.  Marina's eyes got huge.  I knew her mind.  I had to stop her so I cupped my hand over her mouth.  Of course my little motor-mouth was not pleased.  I used hand signs to indicate she was to be silent; all the while the noise vibrations were stirring the air.  When I finally released her, Marina said, "Did you heeear that??" (just like Buddy the Elf at dinner).  The look of death I gave her caused her to respectfully lower her voice; just not low enough.  Marina kept whispering, "Fart.  Fart," in her 3-year-old-attempting-to-be-quiet voice.  I wonder if the woman next door thought we were taunting her.  Luckily she was too busy to pick a fight with us.

We gave up attempts to "make it happen" in the bathroom and ran for the doors.  I didn't want to have awkward bathroom conversation with the neighbor ("So... what'd you have for dinner?")

Marina did as well as can be expected, I suppose.  Sometimes the temptation is just too much.  As an adult, I sometimes struggle to stifle my immature laughter when proclamations ring out in a quiet bathroom, particularly at work.  I like to think of myself as forever young - like Peter Pan or Mel Gibson from that one crappy movie.

In somewhat unrelated news... remember when Eli used to pinch "booties" when he was three?  Well, Marina has a habit of her own (honestly, I don't know where it came from).  She will randomly back up to someone and fake fart all over them.  She has even done it twice to the cats this week.  Lorenzo seemed less than amused.  Fat Linda was too busy being dumb to notice.

Should I put an end to this?  I think not.  I'm all about wringing all the funny out of these kids as I can.  Plus if she keeps this up, I won't have to worry about anyone wanting to date her.  Win-Win.  

A Sunday Rescue Mission

I have a Lily-scale that measures my level of psychosis.  Zero would be my normal, pleasant, even-keel  self.  I run at a three while I am in food preparation mode (this can be observed about 5pm every night).  Herding children before school can occasionally shoot me to a five.  Then there are those isolated incidents that run me immediately red.  The highest level on the Lily-scale would be an arbitrary 14.  Fourteen means I'm about to break my foot off in someone's royal A (see "Coming To America" for the source of this quote).  

Mark has been out of town this weekend, so I have been playing the single parent role for a few days.  I've actually been managing pretty well, if you don't count the shocking mess in my house.  I started another load of laundry before we left the house for church (on time!) and patted myself on the back.  After our weekly Sam's visit, I carried a sleeping Marina from the car into the house, passing through the laundry room.  That's when I saw something that sent sparks flying from my ears.  The spin cycle on the washing machine jostled my in-progress puzzle until parts of it fell off the back, into the lint-filled depths below.  Since I was carrying Marina, I could only let out an inward scream, which broke blood vessels in my nose.  

If you are not someone who enjoys a good 1000 piece puzzle, you may not fully grasp the enormity of this situation.  

Since I had a trunk filled with perishable Sam's Club items, I had to put off the puzzle dilemma and attend to the demands of Sunday life.  Putting away groceries on a Sunday is no small task.  I have to  regularly throw away all the aging food from the week to make room for the mammoth size cheeses, egg cartons of 98 eggs, and 20 cans of tuna.    

Finally it was time to start the puzzle rescue operation.  I changed into my gymnast clothing and went to work.  Since I had a feeling this would be blog-worthy, I grabbed my camera and captured the situation.  I also thought this would come in handy if I died in the process; Mark could use the documentation for my life insurance policy.  Eli joined my party and asked if he could take pictures too.  He snapped some award-winning shots of my unflattering "leggins".

The scene that caused my brain to incinerate.  

Here is what I had to work with.  After searching for a point of entry and wringing my hands, I finally pulled out the machine on the left for a few inches of maneuver room.

My observations from above.  Notice the tiny puzzle pieces screaming for help.  There were several more hidden under that exhaust tube.  Also found: a pair of socks that have been missing since winter.  

The excavating tool.  

Kitchen pincers and a dislocated shoulder worked together to remove the socks.

Thank you Eli for capturing this.  I inadvertently turned the machine on with my wild flailings.  

Attempting another position while shoving my head arms down.  I needed to rescue my rescue tool.  Pardon the "leggins"... they are part of my Sunday uniform and I needed unrestricted movement.

Notice the wardrobe change.  This was a second rescue mission.  After I reconstructed my puzzle end-pieces, I realized there was still one or two missing.  I had to go back in.  We never leave a man (or puzzle piece) behind.     

 

This is where my head got caught behind the machine and fell off. 

This is about the time my allergies started acting up from the dust wonderland. 

Victory.  Notice the many hazardous chemicals above my head.  This heightened the tension.  Watch out for falling starch and the puke bucket, Lily!

Look at the scrapes I get myself in when Mark leaves me to my own devices for several days.  I'm actually surprised I didn't manage to get trapped back there.  Fat Linda would eat parts of my legs and I would be powerless to stop her.

Now if I get to the end of my puzzle and find there are missing pieces... I pity the butt that is standing closest to me.  

Rain of Terror

Warning:  this is yet another blog about puke.  Kelly, if you are reading, you might want to turn back now.

As I've discussed at great length in the past, I'm not a big fan of puke.  I don't want someone throwing up in the car near me, on a plane I'm riding or when I'm standing down-wind of them.  I start sweating if I think there is any possibility of one of these scenarios.  For this reason, you will never find my kids running around after a meal at a birthday party or social event.  If they try, I run after them (risking my own digestive woes) and yell, "HEEEY!  Do you want to puke or what?"  Yes, I realize I might be a tad (or possibly more) neurotic, but my kid isn't going to be the one to lose it in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese.

Unfortunately, not every parent takes this same precaution.  Allow me to relate to you a very gruesome tale of horrifying proportions.

Yesterday we were at Eli's school picnic where there was a deadly combination of hot dogs and a playground.  Kids were shoving hot dogs in their mouths then sprinting full speed for the monkey bars.  I felt the stir of unease within (or maybe it was the hot dog knocking).  Eli kept trying to stuff his mouth so he could run off.  I kept a firm grip on his arm.  Yes, I know, boo to the crazy mom.

After an acceptable amount of time, I finally let him go, but strongly reminded him that I better not see him moving faster than a power walk.  I followed Marina to the playground where kids were running, screaming and acting like savages.  A very short time after, I saw two staff members wearing latex gloves, approaching the area with buckets of liquid and a spray bottle.  I knew where this was going.

Some hot dog-filled child had climbed up to the top of a platform and vomited all over.  Here the most unbelievable part:  it went partially down the slide and the rest was all over the platform (what luck!).  There was no way to clear the area, so the staff members had to clean around the kids that were jumping around and pushing each other (and still trying to go down the slide!).  As I stood by and watched (horrified!), they poured the buckets full of sudsy liquid down the puke slide.  More than one kid passed by and tried to run up waterfall of puke/cleaner.  The staff member had to gruffly tell them to beat it.  In order to cleanse the platform, they dumped their buckets on the mess.  The problem with a playground platform is there are giant holes in the plastic.  The bigger problem with this playground was the group of kids huddled under the 8-foot platform sitting in a circle.  They were blissfully unaware of the gallons of puke-water that was raining down on their heads.  Everywhere I turned, kids were running and screaming, not in disgust, like I was, but in joyful innocence; completely unmarred by the stomach contents splashing on their arms.  I was hyperventilating.

I bellowed for my kids to come to me and huddle in the far corner of the wood chips.  The clean-up crew used the spray bottle to sanitize the slide and platform, then left the scene.  Within seconds, kids were flying down the slippery slide, wetting their bottoms in the process.  I forbid my kids to approach the vom-splatted wood chips or go near the germs for the rest of the night.  Eli was very displeased.  What's a little puke among friends?

This story goes into my files as a cautionary tale.  It feels a little bit like an Arrested Development line, "That's why never run on the playground after eating hot dogs!" (Remember the "That's why you always leave a note!" quote?)

I just finished dinner, maybe I should go out for a quick jog.

Picture This, If You Will

I apologize for the recent overkill on random picture blogs.  I can't seem to stop myself.  I've been pretending to be a photo-journalist instead of a wanna-be blogger.

Here we go:  a running Lily narration.  These pictures are completely unrelated.

I rarely can let a week go by without sharing a picture of one of my cats.  I am the Cat Lady, but instead of wearing knitted cat sweaters, I wear regular sweaters with cat hair all over them.  Instead of adoring my cats, I constantly plot against them.

Here is Fat Linda.  She can't be bothered to ever sit on the floor like a normal animal.  She lies on top of the coffee table, on my laundry, or on a discarded sock.  And then there is her favorite:  backpacks. Perhaps this is her way of participating in the Back To School fever.  Or maybe she's just feeble-minded.

Remember Giant Dora from my last post?  Marina brought her into my room while I slept so I woke up to her oblong head staring down on me.  Well, last night as I watched TV, the ceiling fan brought Dora closer and closer to me until she was obstructing my view.  I punched her in the head.

The other day, I was helping my mom clean up after she fed my family (Thanks, Mom!) when I discovered this wax paper in her drawer.  I asked her how old it was.  She told me they just bought it.  I told her that was impossible.  Take a look at the box below.  She and her husband seemed rather offended that I would call into question the age of their stock (I might add that it is not uncommon to find peanut butter in their pantry that expired in 2006).  

This microwave looks highly impressive.  Must be the newest thing out.

We had a slight "issue" in our basement this weekend.  I'll create a blog dedicated to this subject soon - when I have enough distance to find it funny.  Suffice it to say that we had uninvited water take over our land.  While we were running the Shop-Vac and taking gallons and gallons of water out of our nearly new carpet, our kids were going crazy.  They were running in circles and screaming.  Just when I thought I was going to start wringing them out, Marina came downstairs with this.  She was joining in the clean-up effort.

I'm always very entertained by the things that Eli brings home from school.  I wonder what his teachers think.  Maybe he is fairly normal... but just maybe he is far superior to all the other 6-year-olds in the world.  

He brought home his self-portrait.  Apparently that was the day he was shooting lasers from his eyes.  Must have been something I fed him for dinner...

I found this when I was checking his homework for tonight.  His worksheet tells him to, "Find something at home that has the shape of a square.  Draw a picture of what you found."  He must have been in his dad's office while he completed this.  His answer, "Ethernet Port".  Excellent.

You may be hoping the camera on my phone breaks soon.  These blogs are the equivalent of making you look at a slideshow from my recent vacation.  That's what you get for wasting your time reading junk on the internet when you should be making your kids dinner... wait, that's actually me, right now.  Dog-Darn it (as Eli says).  

Weak End Report

Here is a weekend in pictures (and words, of course).  

This is what happens when I go to store late on a Friday night.  I have a grocery store specific impulse control problem.  

Grandma bought Marina a 5-foot Dora balloon for her birthday.  First thing Sunday morning, Marina got out of bed, went downstairs and carried it back up with her.  For some reason she decided that a good place to leave Giant Dora was at my bedside.  Imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to see this giant football-shaped head staring at me.

We bought Marina her own box of Legos (yes, I know that it says, 'For Age 6' on the box, but Marina is superior to all 3-5-year-olds).  They make Legos specifically for girls now.  The box is pink and the blocks have several pastel colors among them.  While we wouldn't usually have a problem buying gender-neutral Legos for our girl, we had to make a distinction from Eli's blocks.  These kids like a good fight.  

Naturally they included a female Lego person in the collection.  Take a look at the picture they put on the label (she's the one brushing her horse's face).  Killer hair, dude.

Side shot for the full mullet-effect.  

Your sweater is lovely.  

 Marina also got a box of princess faux-Barbies.  Before long our kitchen looked like a party for fallen Miss America's pageant stars who had been up partying all night.  There were shoes, crowns and gowns strewn all over.

No blog entry is complete without a picture of one of my useless cats.  Here is Lorenzo, intimidating our guests with his laser vision while we ate dinner and cowered.  

He changed location for a more direct laser shot into the back of my head.  

Lastly, I detected a pattern in my home this weekend.  As my stress levels go up, so does the amount of times my kids run by me and slap my buttocks.  Here's an example:  on Saturday, I was rushing around getting ready for Marina's birthday party and everything was going wrong.  As I was trying to find room in the freezer, frozen meats and processed foods were raining down on my exposed feet.  Every time I would put something back, another bomb would drop.  I was feeling violently irate when Eli ran by at a full sprint and smacked my butt.  I felt like a cartoon character with smoke shooting out of my ears.  I calmly asked him not to do it again.  As the words were still coming out of my mouth, Marina came by and walloped me.  This is certainly not an isolated event.  To think, once upon a time, we used to encourage a toddler-sized Eli to smack people in the butt.  

In the words of Jim Carrey, "I'm getting what I deserve, I'm reaping what I sow."  

This can actually be applied to any of my current parenting woes.  I had to pause my typing just now to ask Marina not to lick my leg.  

Weekend.  Weak End (just like my over-slapped buttocks).  

Fat Chance, Fat Linda

I'm sharing some information I found in the spirit of disaster preparedness.

There may come a time when you are sitting in the kitchen telling your kids to stop fighting/start eating and you hear the sound of wheezing gasps coming from the bathroom.  If you follow the sounds, you might discover an obese cat choking on the food she literally just inhaled.  You might think to yourself... "Ummm, do cats really choke on their food?  I thought Fat Linda had a gullet wide enough to swallow Jonah."

This was no hypothetical situation, my friend.  This was reality for us tonight.  While the above thoughts were formulating, poor feeble-minded Fat Linda was trying to breathe and cat-cough.  As a loving cat owner (and slightly neurotic parent), I felt the need to pick up my cat and attempt an improvised Heimlich Remover (this is what we call it).  I tried to violently push in and up.  She puked up a little (right back in to her bowl... yuck) and then just stood there.  When I ran back into the kitchen to Google "how to give your cat the Heimlich," I realized my kids were looking on in horror - well, Eli was; Marina thought my aggressive cat hug was a little funny.   I tried to reassure them, but this story may find its way to Eli's Sunday school class.

After I read the instructions below, I ran back into practice on Fat Linda.  She was eating again... eating, slightly wheezing and purring.  Girl... you nuts.  I followed her around to make sure she wasn't looking for a place to die.  Although if she does decide to die, tonight is a good night since tomorrow is garbage day... (this is a joke, obviously we are donating her body to science).  PETA is probably going to show up at my front door tomorrow morning.

Here you go... Instructions for the cat Heimlich.  I didn't add the paw print bullet points, they came like that.  Sweet, right?  [Paw Print] Loss of consciousness.  If they listed flatulence as a symptom, I would think Fat Linda was on death's door every day.

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What is the Heimlich maneuver?

Also known as the hug of life, the Heimlich maneuver is performed on a pet who's upper air passageway is blocked by a foreign object. It is designed to force the object out of the passageway by applying a sudden squeeze of pressure on the cat's abdomen, which forces air up the windpipe & trachea & dislodges the object.

What are the signs of choking in cats?

• Pawing at the face, mouth & throat
• Gagging
• Anxious behaviour
• Difficulty breathing
• No breathing
• Drooling
• Forceful coughing
• Loss of consciousness

How to perform the Heimlich maneuver:

• Open the cat's mouth & pull the cat's tongue forward.  See if it possible to remove the object with a finger sweep. Don't perform a blind finger sweep as you may push the object further down. Be careful not to be bitten.  If this is not possible, you will have to continue onto the Heimlich maneuver below;
• Pick up your cat & hold his back against your stomach, with his head up & his feet hanging down.
• Place your fist just underneath the rib cage, you will feel the soft, hollow place easily.
• Give four forceful thrusts with your fist (not your arms) inward towards your belly, while also applying an upwards pressure at the same time.
• Check the mouth for the object with a finger sweep. If the object has been dislodged, it is no longer necessary to perform the Heimlich maneuver. If he is still not breathing, perform another check of the mouth as the object may have been dislodged enough to grab it with your fingers. If it still hasn't been dislodged perform the Heimlich maneuver again.
• Check the ABC (airway, breathing & circulation), and perform artificial respiration or CPR if necessary.
• Seek veterinary attention immediately. Even if the object has been dislodged it is still strongly urged you see your veterinarian to give your cat an overall check.

Do not practice this procedure on an animal or person. Only use when necessary.

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Back to what I was saying, if Fat Linda was going to die choking on something, I would never think it was going to be her tiny little food.  It would be far more likely she would aspirate some of the kids' gummy rubber toys that she always hunts and chews to smithereens.  A few months ago she decimated Eli's toy snake and left his head at the bottom of the stairs (she watches too many horror movies).  Eli was the first to see it in the morning.  He howled in agony and then sat dejectedly on the stairs for an hour.  Thanks, Fat Linda.  We had to replace it with a life-size cobra that he regularly swings around like Indiana Jones' lasso and smacks people in the face.  

We're glad you're still with us, Fat Linda.  I'm glad I didn't have to give you CPR.

The Pick Pics

This blog is a nod to the "picture's worth a thousand words concept," but rather than let the pictures speak for themselves, I will add my comments (of course).

There's always a flattering picture of Fat Linda floating around.  She believes I can't see her if she hides under the kids' picnic table.  She is also incapable of a blink-free photograph (like my mom).

Marina in her Dora uniform carrying Lorenzo.  With her brute force, she managed to tear his head off, then carried him around the house displaying her trophy (like a cat with a bird).  

Once again, her hair looks lovely.

I drove by this place a couple of days ago.  I wasn't aware that American rabbits were having trouble with their breeding.  What a relief that someone is helping them!

We found this gem the other day and wisely stopped to capture the moment.  Look closely and you'll see the upgrade this individual made to his Exterra (in fact, click on the picture below if you need).  I wonder if the dealer threw this in to sweeten the deal. We don't have to wonder if this gentleman gets all the ladies.

I'm starting to consider being a photo journalist.  I'm going to make a copy of this blog and send it to National Geographic... and the National Inquirer.