Clinton Christmas Wishes 2015

Here is our Christmas card for 2015. I'd like to publicly acknowledge Mark's superior card-making skills.

No one was injured in the making of this card, except the pride of an obese cat that we tried to dress in a Build-A-Bear sweatshirt. Since you see no cats in this picture, you can guess how that went.

Also, there may have been a typo on the physical copy of this card. As a former English major, you can imagine how this has been torturing me. It has been remedied below...and I badgered Mark into adding an additional song title... heh heh heh.  

Merry Christmas from the Clintons. Glad we can entertain you with our lack of shame.

Feel free to click on the picture for more detail.

Latitude with the Attitude

I had a bad day today.

I'd like to think I'm not that prone to exaggeration, but my family members may tell you differently (like when I make a gasping sound while Mark is driving because I just opened the mail and found a 30% off coupon for Kohls - he thinks this means some danger is about to attack our car). Lately I feel like a turd complaining about things like my bad day or that buttoning my pants nearly gave me a hernia. It's all about perspective. I see the news stories and I feel deeply distressed by stories people post on their Facebook. Suddenly a little (or a lot) of cat pee soaking repeatedly into my non-waterproof carpet pad seems bearable.

It's kind of funny; when I make these grand proclamations (i.e. Positive Lily 2014, then Positive Lily 2015 - the redo and now Positive Lily 2016 All Those Other Attempts Failed) then a whole world of irritations rise up to challenge me. Perhaps I shouldn't be so sensitive to people who loudly crunch their chips or clip their fingernails in public. I'm pretty sure Positive Lily 2016 will not mind when a cat humps the clean laundry.

I gave myself a Friday pep-talk this morning. It was all about finishing the week well and not letting circumstances dictate my attitude. I should probably write self-help books.

All was going fairly well, even if I already had a mean thought about someone who breathed too close to me. Then it all went wrong.

I had a plan to run to the grocery store during lunch (an unfortunate necessity if you work all day then have kid activities at night). As I approached my car, I noticed it would not respond to my remote unlock command. It crossed my mind I was at the wrong car (not the first time), but then how many people have naked man-Barbies with missing legs on the floor in the back of their car?

I looked in the window and noticed my lights were still switched on. This is the peril of driving a nearly 11-year-old Civic. Things start breaking about now. The indicator that tells you when your keys are left in the ignition or your lights are on stopped dinging last week. Already I have left my keys in the ignition (in the garage) three times. I knew it was only a matter of time before those stupid lights got away from me.

Circumstances started to dictate my attitude... And my language. I was able to summon someone who was willing to come outside to help. Last year I purchased some jumper cables while I was in a disaster preparedness phase. I keep them buried in my trunk under clothes that need to be donated and a tote full of garage sale rejects from June (by the way, if I ever get stranded in a blizzard, I will have plenty to wear). Since neither of us knew how to use these cables and we both had a serious fear of either electrocuting ourselves or exploding one of the cars, we were somewhat paralyzed. As I read us the directions aloud, a kind gentleman came to our aid.

I'm always so pleasantly surprised when strangers are helpful, especially when they don't creep you out. We got my car back in business and no one was injured. I call that a resounding success (look at that, I'm thoroughly positive after all).

After the car incident, I was adamant that this would not define my day. At least I have a car. At least my pants haven't ripped down the crack in public. All positive things here. Then I looked down and noticed my work badge was missing. Since I was still in the building, I knew it had to be somewhere. I retraced my steps: in the bathroom, up four flights of stairs, through the cafeteria, pause at the vending machine to stare at the chips, back to my desk. Nothing. Just when I was about to despair, I looked in my purse. There it was, put away like I do at the end of day. I had officially lost my mind.

I should have gone home and gotten in bed at that point. But no, I finished my work day then went to the grocery store so I could be poured on while I walked back out with my groceries. While I was still there, I got a text telling me my daughter had been to see the nurse four times during school.

But...because of the variable, somewhat suspicious illness of a 6-year-old, I now find myself home on a weekend instead of at a soccer tournament. I suddenly have time to clean the house. I can snuggle with the Beans. I might go to the Auto Parts store and use my ignorance to con them into fixing my notification ding-thing. Turns out this day is not so bad after all. There is a cat sitting on my feet instead of humping the American flag bandana at the bottom of the stairs like he was 30 minutes ago.

I feel a bit like Pollyanna right now.

As a quick addition, I will tell this side story. A few days ago, in the middle of the night, Fat Linda left her normal perch at my feet and came to stand on my chest. As I struggled to breathe, she searched for a comfortable spot. She turned once, then sat right on my face. As you may know, cats don't sit on their tails. They keep them aloft so everyone can see their butts. When Fat Linda sat on me, she aimed her butthole right on my face. I instantly identified the horrendous contact and let out a cry, then flung her to the ground. I haven't spoken to her since. The positive side of this story is that it gave me a new catch phrase, "It's better than a butthole to the face."  It really works well in nearly every situation.

My car battery died in the parking lot. Yeah, well, it's better than a butthole to the face...

While You Were Out...

Hiatus. [hahy-ey-tus] - noun

1. a break or interruption in the continuity of a work, series, action, etc (blog...)

It seems the time has gotten away from me. My last blog post was in March. I'm a disgrace to the world of non-profit complainers who believe they have a story worth telling. 

It seems most days I would rather read a book and fall asleep than tell you (the anonymous reader) about the time I had to get on the roof at 6:45 am in my business casual clothes to duct tape the fan exhaust door (what do you call this?) closed so birds would stop opening it, breaking through the flexible tubing and making a nest above my son's room (to this run-on sentence I will add that I have an unexplained extraordinary fear of heights).

So I post now. Not because I have anything particularly clever to share, but because I think about this blog all the time, and how each month fades into the next one without a peep from me. It's become this force that judges me and calls me lazy. And underachieving. 

I suppose as a matter of catch-up, I could present you with a few high points from the land of Clintang. With no lead-in or finesse at all, here they are.

Trees

I don't remember if I've ever shared my battle against the encroaching nature in my extreme backyard (the area beyond the fence that is technically part of our property). Every year, I vow that I will not let the hill turn into a tick-infested weed forest. Hand-pulling weeds works until you go out of town for a weekend or two and come back to find a jungle that you can't traverse because of an extreme fear of ticks and their dirty little diseases. Our backyard neighbor has hostile feelings about the nature that blows weed seeds in her yard all day. 

One day, in a genius passive aggressive move, the neighbor sent a local kid to our front door to ask if we wanted to pay him to clean up the nature, specifically the line of anemic pine trees that looked like they had been starved and beaten. Since the price was right, we agreed. The project took some time since he didn't come back for six months, then when he did, he would randomly stop in and chop something down when he felt like it. But for $200, who was really going to complain?

The day he chopped down my three sickly trees, I went into a state of mourning. I'm not a fan of cutting down trees at all. I agreed only under the condition that I would replant something immediately. That was, of course, before I saw how much trees cost. Or that the cheap ones were only 12 inches tall and would take 70 years to grow. 

After weeks of looking at the barren hill, we decided to take a family trip on a whim to Home Depot at 6 pm on a Friday night. What we found was crazy cheap giant trees. We had to have them. We spared no moment to think about transportation. A good price is a good price. We considered sticking one in the back of our van with 70 percent of the tree hanging out. This idea was rejected since I have extreme anxiety about dropping things out of the back of vans or trucks (ask me about mattress transportation panics the next time I see you).

Also, it turns out an adolescent tree weighs 300 pounds. We bought two of them. Lucky for us, Home Depot was willing to rent us a pick-up truck to get them home (remember the truck-transport anxiety!!) Unlucky for us, they wanted it back in an hour and forty-five minutes. Here is a little photo documentation. 

I made a call on the way home to ask for some help with the unloading. Since they had to use a forklift to put them in the truck, we anticipated some personal challenges. Another unlucky, we are antisocial and therefore only have one or two people we can ever call. Our helper willingly arrived shortly after (yea!). 

It was two Clintons and one thin female (how do you like this title, Lars?) versus the two 300-pound Norway Spruces with arm-shredding needles. The Clintons and the thin female were brutalized but they won. By winning I mean we somehow rolled the trees off the truck in semi-darkness while getting crushed and generating hernias in the process. Unfortunately, getting them off the truck was all we could really manage that night. By the next day, one of those bastard trees rolled down the hill to an evil place that only Olympic weight-lifters would have a chance to retrieve it.  

The tree in the background was perched on the precipice, just waiting to start rolling.

We called on our thin female friend to once again assist in the tree domination (right after we got home from a full-day soccer tournament). It tore us to shreds and took hours. We would roll it a few inches, then have it fall back down on us. Hours later, the neighbor told me she watched us out the window the whole time. She thought for sure we would never get it.  But get it we did. Take that.

This is when we thought we could use a dolly. Turns out you can't.

He's not peeing in that hole. Here is proof the tree finally made it to the top of the hill after hours and hours of grunting and hamstring tears.

Victory. 

Next up... birds

Infiltration

Several months ago, I posted a blog about a bird that had come down into our bathroom fan. I took a video of his moment of release. Turns out he was not there by accident. In March, when we were out of town and my sister was watching our dirty cats, another bird got stuck behind the fan. This one was bigger. I had to walk her through the release over the phone. This is not a small thing to ask someone to do. 

We discovered these birds were lifting up the fan exhaust flap on the side of our house and coming in.  While exploring for a place to build their nest, they went too far and fell down into the fan shoot a floor below. Once they had both done it once, they decided they would just peck a hole through the flexible tubing and build a nest below it in the attic (consequently right above Eli's closet). When we discovered them (I insisted there was a raccoon up there, Mark said birds... whatever), we (Mark) had to climb up into the attic that we have been avoiding for 5 years and try some handyman moves to keep the jerks out. 

We learned that starlings are persistent and will rip through mesh in order to live with the Clintons. What's one thing that will keep them out? Trashy duct tape on the exhaust door on the side of your house. 

Cats

Our struggles with our two cats, Lorenzo and Fat Linda, are well documented. I've got to say, they've definitely put me off cats for life (not that I was particularly ever "on").

Since I've already been in front of the computer too long tonight, I'll leave out the boring details and just tell you that Lorenzo, the most awful cat alive, has been peeing and pooping (or dookie-ing) up our house like crazy. We are at the end of our patience with him, even if he has been a Clinton for 11 years. I finally took him back to the vet (sending him over the feline spending allowance for life). He doesn't have a urinary tract infection (of course). They are checking on his blood and will get back to us ($$$!).  So far, it sounds like he is basically just a jerk. 

They gave me some reading material on how to address this behavior in your cat. They recommend litter box retraining. Here is an excerpt from the instructions. Pay special attention to the line about "just stop praising and ignore the cat." 

I might have been going about this cat ownership thing all wrong. I'm pretty sure I verbally abuse our cats daily and they wouldn't give a crap if I ignored them. 

I told Lorenzo this morning that I'm not speaking to him anymore, in fact I can't even look at him. I'm pretty sure he just peed on my bathmat. 

On Cooking

Also well documented are my struggles with cooking. Why this comes so easily to some and not to others, I'll never know. I recently found an app that pulls together a bunch of food blogs and websites from all over. It's fairly spectacular. In fact, it's somehow convinced me that that I can cook. I have only to select the right thing to make. 

I've since implemented Sunday Adventurous Cooking days. I pull something from the app and attempt to make it. 

Tonight's attempt gives you a fair idea of how is going so far. 

Now that I made myself sit down and type this post, what I've produced is a stream-of-consciousness type of verbal vomit. Way too much information in one blog. Not much of it particularly interesting.

In case you skipped the middle, I'll summarize for you: 

• Cats and birds successfully annoying us. 
• Home improvement projects need only determination and a willingness to destroy your body.
• I can't cook for sh*# (my mom is appalled at my fake cuss here).

If I ever come back to my blog again, I may tell you about a four-day knitting conference I recently attended...  

Exhausting Danger

It's been a surprisingly long time since we last had any kind of Clinton-esque drama around our house.  Maybe it's the cold weather that has kept us inside and away from potential hazards.  Or maybe we're just becoming boring people.

Whatever the case, we have somehow avoided cutting down trees using [plugged in] extension cords to guide them [somewhat] safely to the ground. We have also not tried to remodel anything, nor has anyone publicly humiliated themselves (any more than the norm).

When you are on a run like this, is it any surprise that trouble comes looking for you?

Our most recent form of trouble was a result of homeowner negligence.  

We have a fan exhaust hole high up on the side of our house.  Apparently this is where the smelly poop air is funneled from the various bathrooms.  Normally this exhaust hole would have a flap over it, but we live in Central Illinois where the wind blows viciously free and likes to take swinging flap doors and tear them off.  A few years ago, when we lost the first door, we had to borrow a tall ladder to get Mark up on the garage roof.  From this point, I'm a little fuzzy on what we had to do next.  I know the exhaust hole is super high up, and while Mark is generally considered to be a giant in my family, it might have been even above his reach.  Either he somehow managed to stretch his tendons longer than humanly possible to switch out the door, or we (perhaps unwisely) had him step up on something on the slanted roof in order to make him taller.  I would ask him right now, but he's upstairs and I'm really not motivated to move.  Suffice it to say that the door changing process was lengthy and rather dangerous.  

Imagine our disgruntlement a year later when we came home (likely from Sam's Club, our regular togetherness outing) to find the swinging flap door lying crippled in the snow.  Rather than attempt another risky door replacement, this time in the snow, we ignored the problem.  Everyone knows that when you ignore an issue, it just goes away.

As the seasons changed, I would occasionally toss out a comment about how we should replace the door before some animal climbs inside and decides to make babies in our attic.  Still we tempted fate.

Fast forward a year.

Yesterday when I came home from work, various members of my family announced there was an animal in the ceiling. Of course I played the skeptic, as I often do, much to my husband's dislike. Several things seemed off.  First, the noise was in the first floor ceiling. We have a two-story house. Any animal in the ceiling would have to be on the second floor.  Secondly, I think I hear animals in the ceiling, leaking water, and various other homeowner disasters almost every day (yes, I'm also a home-hypochondriac).  It never turns out to be true.

Imagine my shock a few minutes later when I hear a digging sound in the exhaust fan of the first floor bathroom!

Ah yes, the exhaust hole!  A giant, inviting hole for all manner of vermin.  Turns out that the exhaust pipe runs throughout that side of the house, down to the first floor.  And something was in the pipe wanting to exit. 

Mark and I immediately activated the problem solving areas of our brains. We came up with nonsense and speculated on what manner of beast could be watching us at that very minute. Mark took the fan cover off the ceiling while we both flinched and waited for a raccoon to launch itself on our heads. I'm including pictures to help you with your visualization.

Then, I pulled the pocket door partially closed and waited.  It felt very much like Jurassic Park. After a few minutes, I could hear the sound of an approaching animal.  I was fairly positive a squirrel was going to suddenly fly out of that hole in the ceiling all Christmas Vacation-style.  Because I was totally focused on seeing the furry hands, I was shocked (possibly to the point of letting out an obscenity) when a beak and one beady eye poked out. 

He must have been offended at my language (and the fact that he couldn't fit around the fan blades) because he retreated back into the pipe and tried ineffectually to climb back up to the second floor with no claw-holds.  

I called my sidekick back in and we strategized again.  We were going to have to pull out the fan assembly and then catch the bird in a laundry basket.  When we realized this plan had too many holes in it (literally), we considered just closing the door to the bathroom and letting the bird come down then calling animal control. I would sing songs from Cinderella ("sing sweet nightingale...") to comfort him while we waited.

Then, I had a rare moment of brilliance.  Shouldn't we just open the window and take screen out?  Ah ha!

We went to work on the plan.  Mark took the fan assembly out while fully expecting to have his fingers pecked.  

Then we waited.  My family members got bored and went outside to play.  I kept watching.  The Jurassic Park stress thickened again.  Would the bird be injured and just fall out into the collection box we put on the toilet seat?  Would he be angry and try to peck my eyes out if I didn't slide the door shut in time?

Unfortunately, being who I am, I knew I had to get any kind of scenario on video. 

As I waited, Mark and the kids came around the side of the house to check on the progress.  At that very moment, I heard the bird approaching in the ceiling.  I signaled to my family to freeze.  I got out my phone and started filming. 

Just then, a bird stuck his face down, looked around then launched into the air.  He flew at me, causing me to throw the door closed (amazing presence of mind, I must say) and dive into the shambles behind me.  Based on the sound in the video, I think he must have flown into the door then turned around and went out the window.  Mark and the kids witnessed his amazing flight into freedom.  

Here is the 2-second tiny cellphone video footage. 

I'm pleased to say there were no bird or finger casualties. 

We also forgot to put the fan back up until today.  While at work, I briefly wondered if new birds were flying around the inside of my house trying to peck the cats' eyes out. So far, nothing has flown by my head, so we may be in the clear. 

And we all lived happily ever after... (p.s. we are ordering a new exhaust door tomorrow... or the next day)

Dealing with a Dilemma

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wanted to be a writer when she grew up, but she didn't really know how to make it happen. Also, she didn't really want to write a novel, because she didn't have that impressive of an imagination. While she used to lie a lot when she was younger (gulp), all of those stories were loosely based on the truth, or what she wanted the truth to be (i.e. I turned in my homework, or I did not drink the champagne from the garage).

Instead, like all of the misguided youths from this day and age, she felt she wanted to tell everyone about what she felt was interesting, and hoped the reader would feel the same way.  Though, she did try to avoid the mundane, narcissistic traps (i.e. I'm going to the store to buy cauliflower with my 25% off coupon after I get done with my marathon training for the second time today).

For several years, this girl's life was riddled with chaos and entertainment while she tried to learn mothering and how to be a successful spouse by trial and error. During this time, she had a work schedule that allowed her to be at home with a child during the day then work at a night desk in the evenings, usually by herself. All this alone time, caused information to queue in her brain. She would wait until she had a few moments each day with her husband then download story after story on him. He was, of course, enthralled with hearing about how she ran into an acquaintance at the grocery store while she had toilet paper shoved up her nose.

As this girl had learned at an early age, there is only so much of her talking people can tolerate before their eyes start to cross. But she still had more to say... what to do?

Solution: girl meets technology. Ah ha, someone introduced her to this thing called a blog. On the blog, this girl could tell all the inane stories she wanted with no shame about being inappropriate or boring, or boringly inappropriate. For years, this girl would share stories about being hopelessly terrible at a position in life yet still find all these ridiculous things funny (remember the Eli/carrots post?). Her readership was low, and that wasn't a problem at all for the girl. She just wanted to write. She loved writing. She would mentally write all day then come home and try to recreate it all on the computer.

Fast forward a few years. The girl now has a job that demands a lot of her time and requires her to be constantly communicating. Suddenly she is no longer as driven to come home and tell someone her stories. And what stories does she have to tell anymore?  Her kids are in school and are no longer embarrassing her in public on a daily basis. Plus, she hasn't forgotten to zip her fly in months.

Add another dimension, the blog now has an expanded readership. Suddenly, people who sit across from the girl in meetings are now reading about a case of diarrhea caused by a midnight consumption of cough medicine (for reals). What to do...

Is there still joy in writing socially appropriate, censured stories?  But what happens when she wants to tell people about the nonsense of minor outpatient surgery prep that includes a box with pictures on the side like this?

What happens when she find a sign like this on a stall? Whom should she tell?

Maybe the answer is she should be like most people and not tell anyone, because no one wants to see those pictures. No one wants to know that someone took the time leave the bathroom to grab post-its from their desk then they returned to leave a note on the stall, all in the name of preventing fecal transfer. And that the next person who came in the bathroom was immature enough to run back to her desk to grab her phone to take a picture of the sign, then publish it months later on a blog.

There is no answer for this girl. She can't remember if she still loves to write. Seems that she likes to simultaneously read and knit more these days. And talk about when she is going to start exercising...  which is tomorrow, or the next day.