Wednesday, May 29, 2013

No more Baby Ruths

The end of the school year is fast approaching my family and this year, unlike many other years, I'm actually ready for it.

In the past, my joy at being able to stay up all night and attempt to sleep in every morning was overshadowed by children who also eventually woke up.  Children who were constantly hungry, bored, gassy, dirty, hyper, and hypnotized by the pied piper effect of the ice cream truck.  By August, the facial tics I'd developed in mid-June had grown into people commenting on how much I resembled that wretched actress from Throw Momma from the Train.


If I had bothered in years previous to buy a summer pass to our local community swimming pool, this woman's head would have been coming out of the locker room on my painfully white body in a bright turquoise halter top one piece.  Savor that thought for a moment.  MILF-y, ain't it?

This summer...well this summer my children are older...one's not even home anymore...and I bought myself an Olympic style racing suit that I can actually swim in.


This suit does not give me a wedgie, nor do I have to suffer any razor burn.  Housewife win!  Still a MILF fail but housewife win!

The relaxation I will enjoy for the next three months is going to be filled with answers to my children's needs.  Hungry?  Make yourself a bowl of cereal.  Gassy?  Go outside and quit drinking so much juice.  Dirty?  You know where the shower is, use it every single day and then clean it or clean it and then use it, your choice.  Hyper?  Again, go outside and quit drinking so much juice.  Ice cream truck?  I have chores, many chores, in which you, yes you, can earn yourselves compensation to spend at mobile food vendors!

...and no one in my house wants to watch the visual vomit of Nick Jr. anymore, thank God and all the angels.

Then there is the matter of the summer family vacation.  We haven't decided where to go or what to do yet, but it doesn't matter because my children are old enough to not need diapers or a handy supply of wet naps.  We might get a little real vomit on a road trip but it won't be because of a rear facing carseat.

So, summer is welcome.  Bring the heat and the 50 spf sunscreen.  I'm going to do my thing and remember to buy family swimming pass. 

Because this summer I do not have to leave the lap pool to take a little boy into the female dressing room to take a mid swim poop.

Woohoo!

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Uncomplicated Life I

My Navy Manchild sent me magic beans for Mother's Day.
 
 
They grew into this plant.
 
Just wanted to share it.
 
 


Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Lolly actually does get her adverbs here.

This is actually a post.

In case you were actually questioning it.

Actually, what I'm writing about is the word "actually" and how we actually overuse it.

Though, I don't typically overuse it.  I try to use it appropriately.  Everyone else actually uses the word "actually" way too much.

And it's actually driving me bonkers.

Overusing "actually" is quickly becoming tops on my list of grammatical pet peeves.  It's not yet overtaken the loose/lose confusion that people can't seem to relieve themselves of, but it's actually fast on it's heels.  I think using hashtags in a non-Twitter format is also grammatically atrocious and quickly becoming a scourge in our written communications.

Let's explore the definition of actually, shall we?

ac·tu·al·ly
adv.
1. In fact; in reality: That tree is actually a fir, not a pine.
2. Used to express wonder, surprise, or incredulity: I actually won the lottery!

When used properly, "actually" is actually an adequate descriptive!  When used improperly, the overemphasis actually makes your speech underwhelming.

Take, for example, the cooking segment I watch on a daily news program.  The chef was preparing a chicken salad sandwich with tomatoes on artisan bread.  It looked tasty and I might have copied the recipe, except when he cut it on the diagonal and presented it to the camera, he said, "This will actually make an excellent dinner!"

"Will it?" I asked him, annoyed, through the screen, "Will it really?"

The TV chef left me with two ways to think of his sandwich.  That it really is chicken salad and that it actually would be something a person could eat, or, that he's surprised that he could actually prepare a meal at all.  Either way, at least it wasn't egg salad, because while it's delicious, it stinks up your fridge if you have any leftover.

What I'm getting at here is that we all should try to say exactly what we actually mean and filling up our speech with hyperbole is a bad habit.

So stop it, ya looser.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Live long and prosper, prosper hardcore.

I'm going to go see Star Trek.

This will be awesome.

I will wear this shirt.  That is, if I can find it in my pile of clean laundry which I neglected to fold today.

I will not tweet during the movie.  I do not use my Twitter account but that is not the point.  Everyone but me has seen this movie already and there is no need to Tweet about any of it.  I might brag on Facebook and the only reason people might care is that they didn't know my little town had a movie theater.



Wil Wheaton is sexy.  I wonder if he got a little voice cameo like he did in the last one.

He did too!  Google it!  That part in the middle where you were just a little aroused and it wasn't Uhura in her underwear, or Kirk blinking those eyes at you, so you didn't exactly know what caused the warm feeling in your bits, that was his cameo.

Spock is also sexy.  Leonard Nimoy, Zachary Quinto, doesn't matter.  A bowl cut with tapered sideburns and all that split finger action is hot.

Captain Picard is sexy.

Odo, he's sexy, and adaptable.

Chakotay is sexy.

I didn't watch that Star Trek: Enterprise but I'm sure that Scott Bakula is sexy.



Pretty much all I think about when I watch Star Trek.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

You can call me Sylvia Browne because all my predictions about today came true.

God bless elementary school teachers because the dear lord knows that I could never ever be one.  A school bus full of second graders for a day long field trip is more than I can handle for long.

I had four boys under my charge.  That's a lot of bathroom breaks.  A whole lot.  Pee everywhere.  How do the Duggars manage this with everyone needing to pee all the time?  Ma Duggar must have it down to an assembly line.  I can't imagine how a children's bathroom assembly line might function.  I suppose that if I could, entering the teaching profession probably would have made more sense to me.

Instead I steered away from teaching, had boy children five years apart and stopped at three of them.  This made bathroom stops manageable and the size of their bladders proportional.  Today's barrage of second grade bladders was terrifying and intimidating.

There were also many fart jokes.  To eight year old boys there is nothing funnier than a well cut fart. 

The kid I sat next to on the bus kept farting on the way there which he handily blamed on me.  This same kid blamed a random odor on me on the way home too.

On the way there at least he was quiet about the blame. Just between us.  A shared joke in our new friendship.

On the way back he just stood up and shouted, "Mrs. Evans farted!"  Then he asked if he could finish my tube of Pringles.  I told him no and gave him a banana instead.

Anyhow, I brought back a nice fossil rock for my garden.  Finished off my can of Pringles too.


Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Big Yellow Bus

I volunteered to help chaperon my son's 2nd grade field trip tomorrow. 

I've volunteered for elementary field trips before.  I'm no stranger to a school bus.  The fourth seat back on the driver's side is the seat with the heater under it.  Figured that one out in my own second grade year.  Bus rides are nicer when you haven't wet your pants and you aren't sitting in the freezing front seat if you did.

Speaking of pee, I held my bladder for a hundred miles on one field trip.  There was no place to stop and go between here and there.  There wasn't even a tree.  Luckily it was warm and I didn't wet my pants, but I was sweating yeller by the time we pulled into a truck stop.  Three days later, UTI.  I always tell you when I pee in a cup.  I'm consistent like that.

Anyhow, tomorrow we get on a bus and two hours later we'll get a pit stop (unless I've already peed in the emergency bucket I'm taking) and then we'll go find fossils. 

Fossils!  That might be worth a bus full of eight year old children!  Children who will whine and wipe their boogers on everything and suck back energy drinks and laugh at their own farts and hurl in the bus aisle because they've been told they can bring their cell phones to play games on and they are bound to become motion sick.

My son doesn't have a phone and he's not touching mine.  If he hurls, he hurls honestly.

Fossils though.  I like fossils.  I like digging for rocks.  Fossils is worth sucking up a bus trip.

After the fossils a trip to the local park, the one with a giant swirly slide that isn't at all slippery because people, who I assume are teenagers, use it for a urinal.  None of them kids is going down the slide if I can at all help it because I'd like to not hold my breath on the bus ride home.

If my parental participation must have a theme, urine is a good of one as any. 

Monday, May 13, 2013

Some gay will get some rights, or something like that.

Because I'm a blogger and not a reporter, I don't have to maintain the same level of public trust as the real press and therefore I can pass along this completely false story because it confirms my biases:


 
 

Considering that Minnesota is likely going to be the 12th state in the union to legalize gay marriage, Michele Bachmann not feeling very positive about the whole thing is a given.  Whether or not she'll leave the state is debatable.  After all, wouldn't the new law finally make her marriage legal?

Just in case she does decide to relocate, I'm in the mood to extend a welcome to her.  Michele, come on over to Nevada! We're allowed to drink foot long margaritas right on our public streets, and we have a brothel or two, but we still don't have the morally corrupt institution of gay marriage.

You and resident crazy pants Sharron Angle would get along famously, I'm sure.  Share makeup tips and whatnot.

However, if you do show up here, I recommend you stay clear of Nevada state senator Kelvin Atkinson:

 



Hey Kelvin?  If Michelle moves into the silver state, please don't move to Minnesota, okay?  I invited Michelle to our state in general.  YOU are invited to my house for pancakes anytime.

Wednesday, May 08, 2013

If my thumb is green, what does that make my middle finger?

That Kmart commercial about shipping my pants was the deciding factor in shopping last weekend.  Since I was in the big city I could shop at any bargain store and Kmart won out with witty advertising.  That and it was located next to where we decided to have lunch.

Didn't buy or ship pants at Kmart though.  I bought flats of petunias and some tomato plants.  Today I pranced about my yard with dreams of greenery, a hoe, and an un-kinked garden hose.

Pruning my rose bushes resulted in a huge blister on my middle finger.


Tomorrow I'm going to finish pruning my other two huge rose bushes down using my oscillating power tool.  Maybe this time I won't catch any part of my body on a thorn, like my earlobe, which has stopped bleeding.  Any way I manage to trim my bushes, there will be grunting.

How I'm going to prune my rose bushes doesn't really concern me though.  The obsessive thought running through my head right now, right as I'm typing, is whether or not I should pop my blister.

Popping stuff...it's so so so satisfying, isn't it?

But, if I pop the blister, my finger will probably be sore.

The blister on my finger feels pillowy, like bubble wrap.  I keep rubbing it against my thumb.

The blister on my finger feels weird, bumpy and alien and it's fun to pop bubble wrap.

Should I pop it?

Shouldn't I?

Gah!

SHIP!

Monday, May 06, 2013

He Stomped Upon the Terra

This weekend was a sad one.  We drove into our hometown to attend the funeral of a man that served as mentor, friend and father to my husband.  His death was unexpected.  It was the kind of parting that left you wishing that you'd had just one more conversation and one more hug.

When my husband and I were dating, he took me to meet this man.  This was the test.  This man's perception of me mattered more than anyone else's and he wouldn't hesitate to tell you what he thought.  The girl Justin dated before me didn't pass this test.  She was pulled aside and told, "I've checked up on you and I know exactly who you are.  If you hurt Justin in any way you will be sorry."

My husband ended up breaking it off with her.  I was never pulled aside.  Instead, when we were expecting our first child, this man used to reach out and scratch my itchy pregnant belly just to see me twitch my leg in ecstasy like a dog.  Then he grinned because he knew that even his scratching my belly was a lesson that he was teaching his bonus son.  He taught Justin many lessons in the more than thirty years they knew one another.

This man, as wise as he was, was also a sin eater.  I think his capacity to take on and absolve others of their sins is what ultimately took him.

If you've never heard the term, a sin eater is a person who takes into themselves the sins of another so that a person can go into the next life free of the weights they carried in this life. 

This man was always taking in people like lost puppies and doing what he could to hold them, help them, comfort them and then, when it was necessary, telling them to cut the shit.  He had good friends in the highest of places and better friends in the low, and it mattered very little to him why you'd found yourself in either walk of life.  He was always happy to see you and to be your friend.

But, as it is with sin eaters, eventually the sins become heavy and destructive.  People begin to treat you as if you are unclean and it's also the way you treat yourself.  Friends from high places and low places drop away.  People watch and gossip from afar, speculating, and taking delight in your fall.  They forget all the good you'd brought to the world and poison what's left, all the while trying to find someone else, a replacement, to comfort them by eating their sins.  Someone whose glass house hasn't shattered.

My husband's friend, mentor, father...he grew tired, the people who loved him tried to eat his sins, and now I pray to God that he rests well.

My husband is a better man because of you.

Wednesday, May 01, 2013

Please, touch my snake, touch it...

I hadn't been married very long when I declared to my husband that I liked tools and that I liked fixing things.

This pleased my husband.  He does not like tools.  He does not like fixing things.  His handyman talents are limited to singing, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the mornin'!" and even then, his voice could use fixing up with duct tape.

Since the early days of my marriage, I have fixed many things about the house and collected many tools that make loud noises.  I've tiled my floors.  I've replaced faucets and lighting fixtures.  I've designed and built furniture, planter boxes, and my backyard gate.  I've removed objects from our toilets, our garbage disposal and our dryer vent.  I've sanded, painted and sealed.  I've stared down clueless hardware store employees when I remind them that I'm the one that asked the question so would you please direct your answer to me instead of my husband?

Every time I've performed a handyman task, I've felt accomplished and sort of burly.  My husband compliments my skills and tells me how very sexy I am wearing my protective goggles.  Then we share a touchy feely type moment, sometimes even before I wash the grease from my hands.

Today though, there was no touchy feely.  There was only washing and nausea and regret.  Today's project left me with the more than distinct impression that I should have never taken over all the fix-it jobs around here. 

See, if Cousin It and Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo got together and had a baby, today I found it abandoned in the trap of my slow draining master bathroom sink.  Congratulations!  It's a slimy hair wad the size of a soda can!



But then, there was, the, smell.

I've attempted to tastefully describe this odor several times.  I even laid down for an hour to rest my head between attempts, and there is no way to describe how overcoming the smell was except to say that I was absolutely not sticking my head in the same bucket I'd drained Baby Hairball into in case my gagging got serious.

I have never touched anything so disgusting in all my life and I've changed babies diapers after they've eaten Froot Loops and caught their puke in my hands.

It was as I was disposing of the clog in the outside trash can that I wondered what the hell I was thinking, so young and so newlywedded, for volunteering as Mrs. Handyman?  Sure, it's awful fun to go around grunting with your oscillating tool but if that means I always get the clogged sinks and backed up toilets, I really should demand that my husband do more than hold my level and drool when I put my screwdrivers in the back pockets of my jeans.

There was that one time that my garbage disposal suddenly backed up and sprayed sink vomit on nearly every surface of my kitchen, including the ceiling, and Justin helped me clean that up and then he used his muscles to plunge the hell out of it so I wouldn't have to get under that sink....

Oooh, I think I got my touchy feely back.

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