We Wish You a Clinton Christmas

It's time again to wish you a merry Christmas from the Clinton family.

If you don't feel you've gotten enough of our Christmas cheer, you are welcome to look back at some historical Christmas greetings (click on hyperlinks below).

2013 - Wrestle up some Christmas cheer

2012 - I'm dreaming of a denim Christmas

2011 - Merry Christmas from the future

Unfortunately we did not have the technology in 2009 and 2010 to electronically share Physical Christmas and Vestive Christmas. Those live on only in our memories (and mammaries).

Now that you are full of awkward Christmas warmth, go out and invade someone's personal space.

Shame On You

For the past 10 or so years, we've been faced with a dilemma in my house.  How do you deal with misbehaving animals?  Clearly we understand misbehaving humans, but cats are an issue unto themselves.  They seem to exist only to please themselves with no consideration outside of that.

I've tried several things to part with disagreeable behavior, like trying to use the rule books some follow for child discipline. Perhaps these principles are universal.

First I used some I-feel statements.  Lorenzo, I feel upset when you eat my hair when I'm trying to sleep. Nothing.  Fat Linda, I feel murderous when you wake the whole house in the middle of the night because you are scratching on my kids' doors trying to get them to feed you.  No reaction.

So I moved onto phase two.  Time-outs.  I put Lorenzo in the corner facing the wall shortly after he brutalized his overweight sister.  He yawned, licked his shoulder then jumped down.  This did not have the desired effect.

Then we tried removing privileges.  Fat Linda, I will not allow you to lie down in my pile of warm laundry.  Lorenzo, I will poke you every time you try to go to sleep until you get tired of it and viciously attack my arm.

So here we land at our current state, which is admittedly completely ineffectual.  I verbally abuse and publicly humiliate my cat friends.  While this still yields no results, I'm finding myself feeling slightly better about the state of things.  There are some risks with this type of "discipline." I have to look both ways before swearing at my cats.  It won't do to have my kids telling their teachers they have two bastard cats at home.  Also, people tend to think I'm mean.  Though I risk giving up my "Most Friendly Female" crown (10 years running), I'm going to continue publicly airing my cats' bad habits.

You've seen those excellent dog-shaming websites?  I've decided this could work for our two moronic beasts.  I'm hoping for some real changes fueled by feline embarrassment.

Oh, the carnage...

I'll let you know if this produces the results we are looking for.  I realize I'm endangering my bathmats just by putting this out there.

Look at this retaliation we're already seeing...

Less Than Lessons

Sometimes you hear people say things like, "if only life came with an instruction manual," or if "I only knew then what I know now." I was just sitting here thinking that since we each learn our own lessons based on choices we've made, wouldn't it be great if we shared some of those lessons with the people around us so they wouldn't have to make the same mistakes we did?

This isn't exactly a new idea.  I read Internet advice on everything from medical diagnoses to product reviews on sports bras.  So following suit, here I am about to pollute the cyber world further by offering my lessons for your consumption.  Hopefully what I've learned will prove useful for you.


1.   Don't put your refrigerator against a corner wall.  You will never be able to open the door more than 90 degrees.  Then if you are defrosting meat and the nasty blood leaks out and runs down the back wall and settles below the produce drawers, you will not be able to open the door wide enough to remove the drawer and clean it.  You will have to slide flattened paper towels below the drawer and  hope for hyper-absorbency.  Also, don't judge the crap on my fridge doors.  We save tests, drawings, free magnets and pictures of ugly people.

2.  Don't buy any of these As Seen on TV products (this list could go on and on.  Now you see where all my money has gone... :

• Revo Styler
  
  
  

• Split Ender

• Ab Roller

• Wax Vac

3. Don't try to lose 20 pounds over the last weekend of summer using this.  It may cause a sudden lack of bowel control.

4.  Don't tell your daughter to "save the drama for your mama" ... because she will.  Then you will be stuck in the car with her during soccer practice doing this after you tell her she can't watch a movie.

5.  Don't make this your dinner drink, no matter how poor you've become.

6.  Or this... even though it's on sale at the gas station for $0.99.

7. Don't impulsively buy a cat because you are living in another state and feeling homesick.  Even if he reaches out of his cage at the pet store and grabs your arm.  You will sincerely regret it.

8.  Don't do it again five years later on another unfortunate whim.  Cute kittens grow up to be fat cats with bad brains.

9.  Don't let your child grow a rat tail modeled after his favorite (somewhat obscure) soccer player.  Chances are, he will get attached to the hairstyle and you will enter into rounds of permissive hair growth followed by haircuts by force for the next three years. And you will always think everyone sitting behind you is judging your parenting choices. 

10.  It is unwise to do your Target or grocery shopping over your lunch break during the summer.  You will either constantly lose your gummy vitamins, deodorant, toothpaste, gum, etc to major melting, or you will have to sit with bags full of toilet paper and 6-packs of underwear on your desk for the rest of the day.  And you will forget this lesson over and over. 

There it is.  Not exactly my top 10, but all I could think of right now... while I'm sipping on a gallon of Carlo Rossi with a Boone's Farm sidecar.

Learn from the error of my ways and turn from stupidity and As Seen on TV (I totally have my eye on those yellow nighttime sunglasses that let you see in the dark...)

Mental Leap Frog

This is a totally lame way to start a blog, but I'm doing it anyway.

I'm currently in the throws of an impractical dilemma.  In an uncharacteristic move, I've just painted my fingernails. And I chose an odd color, like that blue soup from Bridget Jones' Diary. In a totally characteristic move, I unbuttoned my pants when I walked in the door to promote midsection relaxation - before the inspired nail painting.  Now I face a bit of a conundrum.  Do I attempt to re-button my pants with tacky nails?  Or do I take my son to soccer practice with my pants noticeably open?  (I actually just looked down and realized I totally forgot to paint my thumbnail... I stink at being classy, as my open jeans loudly proclaim.)

In an attempt to solve this problem, I asked my daughter to button them.  Turns out this squeeze takes a little more strength than her 5-year-old hands have. How very flattering.

Speaking of her little hands... In a totally shocking turn of events, I was notified yesterday that she was caught cutting a hole in her t-shirt at school.  It's not that she doesn't know how to navigate the Fiskars; instead this was a premeditated action.  She expressed some dissatisfaction with the shirt I chose for her that morning.  She wasn't a fan of the hand-me-down football shirt that used to belong to her brother. I flexed my maternal dictatory will.  A tomboy shirt with yoga pants and sloppy up-do combo is one we all should adopt from time to time.

Marina disagreed.  So Marina took action.

We've been faced with several parenting crossroads lately.  This was one of them.  Oddly enough, after years of trying to shirk the authority in my mother's home, it turns out I react just like her.  Marina arrived back at school today in the same tomboy shirt with a piece of Scotch tape over the hole (benevolently, I paired it with a leopard-print tiered skirt and flowers in her hair).  Once, after hearing a report that my brother was drawing on his desk in sixth grade, my mom forced him to miss a field trip and stay back to clean every single desk. She meant business. And apparently so do I.  

Here Marina is giving me an artistic pose (and clearly over her trauma). Don't get mad at me that I made her wear that shirt to begin with.  I'm deaf to your judgment.

Speaking of stellar parenting moments, for some reason, every time we drive by the Volvo dealership, Eli calls it Volva. I can't understand why he keeps saying it. I silently laughed the first time then corrected him. Since he can't seem to remember, I've stopped correcting him.  One day in junior high Health class he's going to have an epiphany.

That looks like a blue 2014 Volva...

Eli asked me to take a picture of his trashy rat tail yesterday so he could see "how awesome it looks." After seeing this picture, he confirmed that, "Yeah, pretty awesome." When it gets to be 10 inches long, he can donate it.

And lastly, in a horrendous moment the other day, my coffee went tumbling off the roof of my car where I had it balanced before work. Now it looks like someone puked on my window and door.  And since I'm on a nine-year no-car wash streak, it is likely going to stay that way until the next torrential downpour.  Maybe that will distract passerbys from my blue nails and unbuttoned jeans.

This blog post is a bit on the ridiculous side with several different thoughts strung together loosely with abstract segues.  So basically, it's like having a conversation with me on a normal day, only with pictures.

Cat Days of Summer

When asking someone to do you a favor, there's always a risk that it will come back and bite him or her in the butt... or the arm. And by him or her, I mean the person doing the favor for you.

When you have cats, you always need a favor. I'm guessing you can see where this is going.

Every few years we go on a vacation that requires us to call in the cat-sitting reinforcements. Unfortunately (for them) our cat-sitter is always an unpaid family member. 

The allure of the domesticated cat is their self-sufficient nature that seldom requires more than food, water and poop-scooping.  That is, if you own a cat other than Fat Linda or Lorenzo. 

Fat Linda and Lorenzo are unparalleled idiots that actively try to terrorize our house. Lorenzo has a personality disorder; he alternately demands affection then bites you without provocation.  He also beats Fat Linda daily.  When we are out of town, all his most extreme traits flare up.  He is angry that we left him and demands that the cat-sitter should magically turn herself into us. When that doesn't happen, he stalks her through the house, hissing and waiting for an opportunity to attack.

Two years ago, I got a call from my cat-sitting sister while we were vacationing in another state.  She said she was sitting on our couch minding her own business, when Lorenzo walked up and demanded her attention.  She gently eased him away, only to be viciously bitten on her arm.  This of course set off a rage bomb in her body.  She chased him through the house wanting to do him serious harm. Since he has under-bed hiding skills, he narrowly escaped death.  

Unfortunately, cat bites are the most nasty, bacteria-infused afflictions known to man (and woman). At the time of the call, she could no longer feel her left hand and the red streaks racing up her arms signaled an issue.  

She asked me what she should do.  I told her to get to the doctor. Little known fact: there is a protocol for animal bites at the doctor's office.  A form must be completed that requires you to identify the perpetrator.  From there, the offender gets reported to Animal Control.  

Animal Control called me the next day to tell me my cat was in violation of the no-biting humans law.  I was told I had to take him in to my vet's office for a mandatory 10-day quarantine.  Since I was on vacation, I told him the only person who was available to transport crate-hating animal was the very person who was attacked.  Luckily I was speaking with a logical person who understood that would not work.  We were able to sidestep the quarantine and were held off with the promise that I would take him in when I returned home.  The vet didn't seem too alarmed by his tendency to attack.

I had to take him back to that office a few months ago when he wouldn't stop trying to murder Fat Linda.  They suggested I give him Prozac.  I told them I'd think about it.  I'm still thinking about it.

Back to present day... now that the cat-sitter subscribes to the "once bitten, twice shy" adage, she is prepared to defend herself against the sudden attacks of the needy cat.  During this vacation she had to beat him off with a foam sword when he started to stalk her. She also had to clean up all the cat vomit he contributes on a regular basis.  Luckily he hasn't taken to peeing on the bath mats lately.

Then there is the other cat.  Fat Linda dissolves into a blubbery ball of panic when she thinks no one will arrive in time to feed her.  Most non-vacation days, her addled mind is cunning enough to fool different members of our family into feeding her multiple times each mealtime.  

On one of the days, the cat-sitter arrived to find Fat Linda had managed to get into the cabinet and spill 20 pounds of cat food on the floor before she sat down to a feast of proportions she could only have dreamed of in the past. As I type this, she is perched on my left with her face four inches from mine, trying to employ mind control.  Feed me again...

So what's to be done?  I honestly can't think of a way to improve this situation. Maybe I should invest in one of those dog training suits where the dog bites your arms, but you can't feel it.  It will be part of a required uniform for cat-sitters who enter my house.  It would certainly be cheaper than a 10-day vet quarantine.

Like this:

It seems like this whole blog is an ongoing advertisement for cat ownership.  In order to be balanced, I will say that Lorenzo has really cute paws and Fat Linda has a pretty face.  

I've just used up my positive cat thoughts for the day.  Maybe Lorenzo and I should split a Prozac prescription...

This action photo took some serious dedication.

This photo took no dedication at all.

I Got No Scents, Cents or Sense

When I think of all the words I could use to describe myself, the noun (or adjective, depending on how you are using it) "country bumpkin" doesn't usually come to mind.  I come from a medium-size college town with fertile soil and one of the highest number of restaurants per capita in the nation.  No, we don't have a Nordstrom, but baby, we like to eat out.

In the past, everywhere I've lived has been a fairly easy driving distance from a major city.  While I don't fancy big city living for myself, I have no problem visiting (unless we're talking about Detroit, south side Chicago or east Los Angeles).

Why am I telling you all of this, you wonder?  Because last weekend I went on a female family member trip to Nashville that made me question both my city skills and my very identity.

In a big city, I likely will never get mistaken for a local.  In Nashville I didn't wear "together" clothes (or college girl short dresses with cowboy boots) or carry a guitar, plus two members of my party wore tourist duds: visors and fanny packs.  Somehow, along with my flip flops and giant mom purse, I must carry an invisible sucker sign with me.

While my sister and I walked through the mall, every kiosk owner reached out to grab our hands.  They all told us our skin looked dry or wrinkled or our nails looked like they could use a buffing.  The food court vendors singled us out to come try a sample of their teriyaki chicken.  Why?  Did we look lost?  Or dehydrated?

As we walked by a fragrance store, the girl working asked us to smell a perfume sample. Since we made eye contact and she stepped in front of us, we felt obliged to smell the little paper.  No sense in being rude to a stranger, after all.  We gave her the requisite "Mmm" reaction then started to walk on. Wait!  If we liked that sample, we would love what she had in the store!

We should have bolted right then, but we followed her into the shop.  She asked what kind of perfume we normally wear.  I embarrassed myself by telling her some kind of Victoria's Secret Body fragrance (poor, country bumpkin!).  My sister was informed that her Burberry London  (not so country bumpkin) was a winter scent.

She gave us some other samples then asked which one we liked best.  I didn't really know; at that point it all just smelled like alcohol to me.  I said the third scent.  We tried to leave again.  She brought out ta pink box from the shelf.  She told us that this fragrance normally retails for $108.  We both looked disinterested... but she said if we wanted to buy it today, she would give us last week's sale and make it $36.

This was a shocking discount.  My sister looked intrigued, but we were wavering.  We told her we would think about it and if we had any money left after shopping, maybe we would come back and buy it.  She saw her fish starting to get away, so she dropped the bomb.  If we wanted to purchase it now, she would give us an even greater discount; she would price it at $29.99.  Down from $108!

Of course my sister said she would take it.  I paused and said I would also buy one.  $34 after tax.

We walked away feeling kind of accomplished - like we just nabbed a killer deal.

A few hours later, we had some time to kill so I got out my phone and looked up our new perfume.  Then I looked again.  What the...?  The same perfume on Amazon was selling for $18.99 with customer reviews complaining that the scent didn't last more than a few hours.

Something that you should know about my sister and me: we avoid confrontation like a shrub full of ticks.  We were still in the mall.  We had the option to march back in the store and tell the fragrance girl to shove all 3.4 oz of this perfume up her butt, or we could silently lament our naivety and count this as a life lesson learned...

How did it turn out?  Before work this morning, I put 8 pumps of the cursed perfume on.  I couldn't smell it at 9:14 am (that was me sniffing down my shirt at my desk).

You would think a tough lesson was learned that day.  But, it turns out you can't shake stupidity in 24 hours.  The very next day while taking a trip on the river in the General Jackson showboat, I fell victim to the ole "don't list your prices" scheme.  They assume someone like me will be keen on getting the giant commemorative cup the drink comes in and will pay any price for it.  They also search your purse before you go in to make sure you will dehydrate without their drinks (the purse checking young man raised his 'eyebrowns' at the two prescription bottles he found in the middle section of my purse. After various ibuprofen and allergy pill spills in the bottom of my purse, I've found these to be the most effective carrying cases. I awkwardly told him I am not a pill popper.)

On the boat, in the drink line, I had the 20 oz commemorative pilsner in mind until I saw the person in front of me order the 36 oz fun bowl.  I knew I had to have it.  I was too embarrassed to ask the price lest I be judged by the showboat bar staff.  I ordered two.  She turned around and poured some drinks from a cardboard carton into the blender, added ice then put it in the fun bowls.  She unsmilingly told me it would be $38.  My lack of confrontation would not allow me to tell her that I could have bought that quart of drinks at Jewel for $3.99 and her commemorative fun bowl would likely give me lead poisoning.  Instead, I took my fun bowls and reflected on my country bumpkin-ness once again.  After a few sips, the cardboard chemical mixture was burning my stomach and making me feel like puking.  I carried it around for two hours then poured it out in the bathroom.

Now the General Jackson commemorative fun bowl can sit on the shelf next to my perfume collecting cat hair and dust.  Here's is a picture of the fun bowl with Fat Linda to give you an idea of scale.  This is not an optical illusion, Fat Linda and the fun bowl are really that big.

So it turns out there is no such thing as a 200% markdown on quality perfume.  And drink gluttony costs $19 and gives you a stomachache.  I have no business going out in commercial public.

I'm going to look up some classes on how to effectively say no to people trying to sell you things.  They will likely tell me the class costs $500.

Side note, completely unrelated:  my 4-year-old keeps walking around saying, "Mamma mia, diarrhea" today.  We tend value humor above appropriateness in the Clinton house.

Fearless Freak Week

I read in a book this week that we as parents often pass our fears down to our children.  As I read, I thought,nah.  But then I paused to reflect...  

Last week my son refused to go barefoot in the backyard grass because he said there was hookworm danger.  

For the last year my daughter cannot brush against a tree or bush without thinking a tick just transferred itself onto her skin. I was also told that yesterday at recess she stood at the top of the playground equipment shouting for assistance because she "was going to die." 

These thoughts seem rational to me, but I'm beginning to recognize that while I may be preventing hookworm, ticks and head lice outbreaks, I may also be raising a couple of freaks (consequently lyme disease-free freaks). 

So what now?  It may be time to make some adjustments in my thinking. I will need to calm my irrational (and sometimes rational) fears so they are not further transferred to my little ones.  Just because the wind is blowing 40 mph does not automatically mean the roof is going to tear apart and lift off the top of our house. Just because I am watching TV at night with the shades open does not mean someone is standing on the other side of the window trying to figure out a good way to kill me. And just because my kid makes a little cough sound does not mean he or she is going to projectile vomit uncontrollably in public (but sometimes that's exactly what it means). 

In an effort to overcome some of these wayward thoughts, I'm going to spend a week doing things that are out of my comfort zone. I will push my limits, challenge myself to be a fearless person. I may return an item to the store or speak up when a server brings me the wrong meal. I may also climb a tree (but not the ash trees in my yard because I think they are dying and will have compromised limb strength).  I am a driven woman.  This will be the fearless freak week.  I've created a schedule below in case you want to follow along with me and conquer your fears as well. Once again, I find myself in self-help book land.

Day one:  Wipe (and I mean bathroom wipe) all day with my non-dominant hand (left). Goal: embrace dirty hands and build my ambidextrous skills.

Day two:  Make a vending machine purchase with a room full of people behind me. Goal: buy chips like no one is watching [and judging] (this should be in that Tim McGraw song about living like you are dying. I'm not much of a country music follower, I had to look up the spelling of his name, for a moment I thought it was Magraw - oops.)

Day three: Practice my shuttle run on the sidewalk in front of my house during the home-from-work hour. Goal: understand that there is no harm in a poor shuttle run time, or heaping on neighborhood shame.

Day four: Leave my house after 8:00 p.m.  Goal: remember this is not actually an obscene time of night, no matter how tempted I am to be offended when someone invites me to dinner at 8:30.

Day five: Eat a tomato grown in someone's backyard. Goal: discover that not every backyard food item has worms inside.

Day six: Use the bathroom in a non-family member's house.  Goal: recognize they don't feel embarrassed when I stand up in the middle of a conversation and walk to the bathroom (especially when I'm limping because my bladder is threatening to burst). 

Day seven: Engage in a public confrontation of some kind. Goal: overcome my terror of conflict.  People respect someone who can stand up for herself. (Example: Me: "I noticed you were staring at my sweater/sweatpants combination. Do you have a problem with my choices?" Them: "No.")

So there it is.  After fearless freak week, I am pretty sure I'll be ready to ski from the black diamond hill and gamble at the card tables instead of the nickel slots. 

Hookworm, eat your heart out (or more accurately, the foot followed by the small intestine)!

April Awesomeness

Eli:  Mom!  Marina drew a picture of you pooping while she was at school!
Me:  Hmmm.  Did you, Marina?
Marina:  YES!  I put it in my backpack!  [After a brief search, she proudly presents it to me.]

Marina: The brown is your poop and the orange is your body.

Me:  Hmmm.  That's nice.  Looks like I have a swollen knee too.

As parents, we are always looking for ways to inspire our children.  I'm glad to see I'm succeeding, even when I'm "at rest."  

Speaking of inspiring, I parked next to a car with this decal on it today.

Looks like everyone in this family has an activity.  Mom's activity is apparently drinking.  I like that they are embracing reality.  If this was my family, I would also buried under a pile of everyone's dirty underwear.

On the subject of my family members, I found this when reviewing Eli's papers last week.  Question: Would you like to learn more about plants?  Why?  Answer:  no because I pretty much know everything about them.  

Good thing I stumbled across this piece of information.  Now I can fire my gardener.  

And lastly, a story about crazy Lily.  Every morning I set my phone alarm for 5:00 a.m. optimistically hoping I will get out of bed and exercise.  Every morning I snooze my alarm for 63 minutes.  In itself, this is not all that odd, I'm sure plenty of people do this.  

Since I use my phone alarm, I have to tap a certain place to snooze it. If I mistakenly slide my finger instead of tap, I turn my alarm off (a fatal mistake). Here is the weird part of this story:  each time I lift my phone and squint my vision impaired eyes to identify the exact tap location, I have the same thought, "That's not how you spell snooze."  Sometimes my brain varies this thought slightly and thinks "Alarm" is misspelled.  One time I was positive it was in Spanish (it said Alarma) and I must have somehow converted my phone language.  Oddly enough it was in English again by 6:03.  

I'm pretty sure there is some kind of elaborate joke being played on poor, tired, half-blind people who abuse their snooze buttons in the morning.  

But honestly, don't you think "alarm" and "snooze" look weird in this screenshot?  I actually snapped this in a lucid moment to prove to my coworker that there really was something weird going on with my phone alarm.  

Let me know if you need a wake-up call in the morning.  Or would like my daughter to draw you a portrait.  Or would like any advice on plants from my son.

The Meaning of Cleaning

It's days like today that make me wish I had a cleaning lady (don't be offended my gender-specific use of this term, I'm sure cleaning men exist and do a good job.  For ease, I will not opt not to say cleaning lady or cleaning man throughout; it's implied).  I just got home from work, put on my evening uniform (this week it is deer pants and a zippy), started dinner then fretted about the condition of my kitchen/living room and beyond.  Unfortunately, instead of cleaning, I sat down to write a blog about it.

Why can't my house ever be clean?  Logically (and perhaps unfairly), my brain tells me it's because I have kids.  On the other hand, I've been to lots of people's houses who own kids, they don't have piles of laundry sitting in front of the fireplace and cat hair hiding in the corners.  But then again, perhaps they knew I was coming over and hastily pulled out the vacuum, then hoped I wasn't wearing black and planning to sit on the "cat chairs."

I dream of having a house that is always visitor-ready.  Instead when we get wind someone is on their way over, it is a fierce scramble.  Closet doors are slammed shut, bedrooms are blocked off.  After such a cleaning storm, you have hope your kids will play along.  Not long ago, I learned my 4-year-old daughter hosted a house tour for visitors while I was at work.  One of their stops included my bedroom upstairs, complete with a bra hanging on the door knob (not in the college dorm sense, more like a storage location).

My brain and my husband once again whisper, why can't we have a cleaning lady?

I will tell you both why not. Following along with my thinking while I present a bulleted list of solid arguments:

• Proclaiming you need a cleaning lady, is akin to admitting domestic failure.  While my failures proclaim themselves (if you've eaten dinner with us even once, you know what I mean), I can't quite take this step.
• Before you allow someone to come to your house and scrub the pee from your bathroom floors, you have to clear the make-up from the counter and bras from your door handles.  If you are already clearing these two things, you might as well spray the bathroom floor with cleaner (and not forget to come back and wipe it up).
• Cleaning ladies don't put away the piles of laundry I fold then leave on the couch while I'm watching TV. Then the cats come lie atop all the piles.  
• I'm still hoping I can figure out how to get my kids to clean my house.  I Googled "is pine sol safe for my children to use on my toilets?" So far, the results are not encouraging. 
• Oh yeah, and we're impoverished.  

So, for the foreseeable future, no cleaning lady.  Perhaps I can think of some games to entice my family members to join in the battle to combat household filth.  Maybe they can earn a meal for every pile of laundry they put away.  The downside of this arrangement is I still have to cook up their rewards.  (I just paused in my typing to use a soy sauce packet to dislodge a stray chip crumb from my keyboard. It was fortunate someone had the foresight to leave this on the table to help me out of this predicament.)

Since the cleaning lady won't be calling anytime soon, and until we get our "situation" under control, I suggest any potential visitors give us 24 hours notice before popping in.  Also, inquire within about the free cat deal we have going on during the month of April.

Worry Warrior

It seems like most people are born with a propensity toward something (yes, I know, I'm a genius at studying humans and making profound statements).  There are some people who are naturally competitive; they always feel the need to beat someone at something, anything.  There are some other  people who are compulsively lazy for life; moving or helping is just too difficult.  And then there are people like me.  I am someone who worries about things.

For as long as I can remember, I've worried.  When I was a child, every time there would be a possibility of tornado (living in Illinois, this was not rare), I would get so stressed out, I would fall to pieces. If the sirens were going off, I was likely throwing up somewhere, which is not really what you want your child doing when you are supposed to be locked in a basement with no bathroom.

In grade school, I walked to and from school every day.  Any car that would slow down to turn or anyone who happened to be out for a jog turned into a potential abductor in my eyes.  Plus the D.A.R.E. program taught me that after they abducted me, they were going to make me buy their drugs.

When I started driving, my mom told me always to look in the backseat for "weirdos" before I got in the car.  Not only did I glance back there before starting my car, but I kept a firm eye planted on the rearview mirror, should any heads pop up from the backseat while I was driving.

As a young adult, everybody wanted to drop a rufi (is this how you spell this!?  I Googled it, but then I had visions of the government seizing my computer and questioning why I was searching this) in my drink.

When I got married, we were going to forget to lock our door and someone would walk in and kill us.   To this day, I refuse to cook anything (not even cookies) for anyone outside of my immediate family, just in case I inadvertently food poison someone.

When I had babies, I was sure they were going to stop breathing.  Really, a stresshead having children is like adding humidity to mold.  The opportunities to freak out are endless.  Especially when there is Internet availability.  Someone with a propensity to worry combined with advanced research skills is really a volatile situation.  And, my friend, I am a chronic Internet diagnoser.  Cough in my presence?  You are exhibiting symptoms of whooping cough.  Have a rash on your stomach?  It is likely scarlet fever.

Our pediatrician especially appreciates my skills.  When Eli was 18 months old, I called him at 3:00 a.m. to tell him that my child had a fever for the third time in three weeks.  I let him know that this was not normal and he probably had something really wrong with him, like something terminal.  Miraculously, our doctor allowed us to stay at his practice.

My worry even extends to my cats (even if I don't like them much).  I'm pretty sure Fat Linda has a thyroid situation and Lorenzo has feline leukemia.  Due to spending cuts, they don't get a veterinarian diagnosis... only my Internet skills.

Since I have been on a recent immunity-building bender, my kids are having a remarkably healthy winter.  I find myself feeling amazingly calm (relatively, I still run down the hall at the first sound of a cough in the night, lest a child puke in his or her bed).  So what now?

My newest thing... I've been Internet-diagnosing the trees in our yard with a variety of diseases (it actually took a really long time to figure out what kind of trees we have so I could properly diagnose them).  The ash trees have cankers and probably the ash borer.  The Scotch pines have Diplodia Tip Blight.  People, we got some sick trees up in here.  And the freaking hostas are dying.

I wonder if I can somehow mentally shift my genetic predisposition.  I'd like to try the being lazy one for a while.  I better search online to see if this is possible... while I look out at my sick trees and sit next to my declining cats, under our roof with the curling shingles and attic full of bat guano.

Ridiculum

I may have mentioned in the past that I am a serious fan of ridiculousness.  Back in the days when I worked part-time, I had far more outings with my kids during the day, so understandably a mixture of calamity and nonsense followed me everywhere.  My children would embarrass me in public bathrooms with their BM narration, or I would embarrass myself by stopping to talk to someone at Sam’s, only to notice a prominently displayed 500-pack of tampons in my cart (at least it wasn’t something like incontinence medication).  

Now that I spend my days sitting in a chair growing varicose veins and rushing to the grocery store over my lunch hour, there are limited opportunities for observing (or participating in) ridiculous behavior.  Lucky for me, there has been a recent influx of ridiculum (I made up this word) to fuel my winter entertainment.  I’ll share some of it with you in case you also have an appreciation and are experiencing a drought. 

Lost-and-Found

The lost-and-found at our church always seems to have a number of items in it.  My son is often troubled by the fact that people have carelessly abandoned their items and there they sit, pathetically waiting to be claimed.  Since it is prominently displayed in the coat area, we have a conversation about it every week. 

A few weeks ago, I noticed a new addition: a fax machine!  Perhaps someone brought their fax machine to church, then inadvertently left it on (or under) their chair.  So, if you are missing your fax machine, I have a pretty good idea where you left it.  As usual, I had to take a picture of it.

Cookery

I recently discovered (though this may come as no surprise to my husband) that I’m somewhat delusional.  I always feel that there some sort of catalyst between me and success that just needs to be identified (or more often, purchased).  Much like my son who is completely taken in by infomercials (particularly the birdhouse that suction cups to your window and those night driving glasses), I feel that if I could just buy the right product, all my wildest dreams will come true.  There are those shoes that will help me run a marathon, those exercise clothes that will wake me up in the morning, and most recently, the cast iron pan that will help me turn into a master chef.

Last month, I informed Mark that I was buying this pan, and consequently I would be cooking us an expert meal every night.  Naturally he seemed skeptical, but then again he can't see the untapped potential lurking below my past failures.  I told him this could effectively turn our kids from vegetarians (by default and noodle overload) into carnivores.  So I made the purchase, watched several YouTube videos on how to season and care for my pan, then went to work. 

The first meal of pork chops met the same fate as all the meats before it, overcooking with the added bonus of charred onions and garlic (plus serious smoke and splatter). I reasoned that I was new to the cast iron scene and there was a learning curve and all that other stuff.  In the time since, we have dined on dried fish disaster (shown below), chicken nonsense and another set of pork chops so leathery no knife dared challenge.  The dried fish disaster also suffered from overspicing after an unfortunate incident involving the wrong opening in the spice container.  That's an overabundance of lemon pepper making the bottom one yellow.

I decided today that all that stands between me and overwhelming success is the instant-read meat thermometer.  I’ll be stopping by the store tomorrow (which will be one day after I massacred some chicken tonight).

Injuries

Marina tripped in a parking lot this weekend.  She didn’t rip her pants or really have any blood, just a little scrape.  Since she was overtired, she cried nonstop for 20 minutes after.  Then she limped for two full days.  Her limping is lacking in convincingness.  I filmed her just like those 20/20 hidden cameras following the people who pretend to be injured at the grocery store so they can get money.

Grundies

Today, while in a public restroom, I started to walk into stall #2 when I noticed something on the floor in there.  It was someone’s underwear... and scandalous ones at that!  I was so taken aback that I made a distressed sound, then just stood there in shock.  The person in stall #6 probably thought I was having some kind of intestinal trouble.  Predictably I ran back to my desk for my phone so I could take a picture.  My brain was trying to concoct what sort of scenario would result in a pair of discarded underwear in the women’s bathroom.  This isn’t some dive bar where that kind of thing would make some kind of sense.  

After I left the bathroom, I acted like a junior high girl and told everybody I saw.  Someone else must have thought it was funny too, because they ended up hanging from the hook on the wall (which I also photographed).  So once again, we have a bit of an odd lost-and-found situation. This one is causing high drama and fueled many conversations throughout the day.

So that is the end of the chronicles of recent ridiculousness.  I hope it touched your life as it has mine, particularly if you happened to lose your scandalous underwear from beneath your skirt in stall #2 today.