Wednesday, May 31, 2006

I think he is a glutton for punishment

I didn't answer the call, and have yet to call him back, but the claims adminstrator with whom I spoke yesterday called me today. I have NO idea why. Maybe out of remorse. Maybe out of pity. Maybe to tell me that the name he gave me yesterday is the incorrect one, just in case I decide to hunt him down. I guess I should call him back.

And I do have to admit that the Jose Cuervos Margaritas helped me through the last portion of that phone call. I think I had to have something in my mouth in order to not yell expletives at this man. Either that or I just needed something mind-numbing so I couldn't really start to question how in the hell some of these people got through training.

I could probably send a chimpanzee and he would be more compassionate.

I have my well-worded letter written, and copies have been made of correspondences between myself and this asshole insurer.

Game on.

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Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Hell hath no fury like an insured scorned

Warning: many expletives flying off the computer screen....

Empire BC/BS ... I am calling you out, you freaking assholes.

How DARE you tell me that the only time you cover the cost of contact lenses is 12 months after cataract surgery?!??!?!!? Mother fuckers. Yeah. That is when your cataract patient is the TYPICAL 75 year old lady who is probably NEVER going to take you up on that offer because her intraocular lens implant works just fine and she doesn't need any more correction on her already fucking corrected eyes.

My SON.... my FU**ING FIVE YEAR OLD SON .... was SIX FU**ING WEEKS OLD when he had his cataract surgeries. And do you know what!?!?!?! They didn't follow FU**ING standard procedure with him. They didn't put those cute little lens implants in his eyes because they would have been worthless 2 months down the road. THAT, my fair fu**ing friends, is WHY he HAS to wear contacts.

These aren't your "ooooo I don't want to have to wear GLASSES" contacts. These are "where the hell am I? oh I don't have my contacts in so I can't see a DAMN thing because I have no human lens OR contact lens in my eyes to help me freaking FUNCTION!!!!"

Mother fu**ers.

You have NOT heard the last from me yet. This is only the tip of the iceberg, you assholes.

Tell me my child, who needs a prosthetic to FUNCTION, isn't worthy enough for your coverage ....

Asswipes. You are SOOO in trouble now. I'm gonna go all Tonya Harding on you!

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Nosey kids

Queen Bee is the NOSIEST kid around. My other blog ... the ruse for my inlaws ... I was just updating it, and she stood there and said "HEY" when I mentioned that she was bored yesterday. It drives me INSANE when she HAS to be in EVERY conversation. Ace and I will try to have a conversation about adult things, and there is Queenie with her nose right in it. It pisses me off to NO end.

And let me just tell you that if this child expects me to be her entertainment the ENTIRE FREAKING summer, there will be a traffic death about mid-June when I have thrown myself out in front of the next passing truck. Yesterday, she and the Door Man went with my Dad to the Memorial Day parade. They came home, and we immediately got in the van to go see Ace at his store. We went out to eat, and then came home. Put the Chandelier Monkey down for her nap, and then it started. It was 95 degrees out yesterday and I wasn't getting anything out that remotely resembled water fun, so I kept them inside for the heat of the afternoon.

I'm BORED. What can I do?

Well, you can fold those three baskets of laundry there.

NO! I don't want to do that.

Well, you can clean your room.

NO! I don't want to do that, either.

Don't ask me what you can do then... go FIND SOMEthing to do.

10 minutes later:


God give me the strength to make it through this summer. Seriously. Yes, she will be signed up for a few things, but not the WHOLE SUMMER!

And don't even get me started on that God-forsaken pool across the river from us.

Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?


So as soon as the Monkey was up from her nap, I decided to take them outside for a few minutes.

Guess what I heard about 10 minutes into being outside?

Can I go in?


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Monday, May 29, 2006

BINGO, my ass

Yeah. Of the FOUR who were going to go as of this time last night, I am the last one standing.

I will give my SIL the benefit of the doubt. She isn't feeling well, and she is die-hard so for her to miss out, she REALLY isn't feeling well. My sister and mother, OTOH ... whatever.

So I have had 3 margaritas. I have decided that maybe I need to have three margaritas every day. At every meal.

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I am a self-proclaimed Bingo junkie and addict. I LOVE Bingo. I don't go a lot, but I LOVE playing it when I can.

The only other person who is more of a Bingo addict than myself is my sister in law, the Engineer. She is addicted. She loves to play. She plays whenever she can at their campground, and now that they don't have a house to live in (there is a story behind that ... it isn't that they HAVE to live at their camper ... they sold their over 3000 sf country home because she is in a state of flux with her job, not knowing whether she will be a Buckeye, a Hoosier, a Wolverine, or a member of the Bluegrass State (she is rooting for the latter)), she plays Bingo whenever she comes home for the weekend.

However, we haven't been for a while. We have been to our local Humane Society's Bingo, but it has been years. The Engineer and I decided that we were done throwing our money at them because we couldn't win a trip to the bathroom, no matter how much we paid.

But you haven't seen Bingo addicts until you see these regulars that attend these games. They come in, toting their Bingo tote full of multi-colored daubers because they have to use hot pink on the odd numbered games that start with B. They pull out their ugly gnomes, bobble-heads of various celebrities ... Donald Trump, Big Ben, some baseball star, or the Pope ..., and pictures of their family.

They set up their shrines. They make sure that noone is sitting in "their" seat. If a newcomer happens to have taken up residence in their lucky seat, they are promptly asked to move down because of the whole seniority/luck factor.

I am not THAT bad. I am mild compared to this. However, I have been known to yell obsenities at the nice blue-haired ladies who yell BINGO 2 minutes into a game, not understanding how in the hell someone could win THAT quickly. But they do.

And coveralls ... you might as well have the EMTs and the police there when those conclude, because those are the biggie payouts, and the ones that build the most tension.

So ... we are subjecting ourselves to the culture of the Bingo ladies AND men tonight. My kids want to know why they can't go. I tell them that they aren't old enough, but in all reality, they don't need hear their mother yelling something other than BINGO at the person who did actually yell BINGO.

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Sunday, May 28, 2006

Apparently in some circles, my name is mud...

Yes. I didn't go to someone's house. BUT ... I inadvertently told you I wouldn't be there! ;)

Sorry I couldn't make it, ladies. Terribly sorry. But we had the fam thing, as you know. And if I hadn't gone to the fam thing, I wouldn't have been there for the announcement that my niece, who I have known since she was in the womb, is now expecting her own baby!!!!! I am SOOOO freaking excited. Except for the fact that I am now considered a Great Aunt.

Get out the cane and rocking chair.

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Saturday, May 27, 2006

As we get ready for our upcoming garage sale....

have you ever noticed the sheer amount of ... for lack of a better word ... SH** that a person can accumulate over the years? I should have gained some sort of insight when Ace and I had to upgrade our apartment after our wedding, just to house our shit. Seriously. Ace had a tiny apartment across from our local high school. It was SMALL! We had to tell one another when we were walking through the kitchen in order to make room for the other's passage.

We upgraded to a little townhouse-type apartment behind the mall. It was nice. We loved it there, but we hated the electric bill in the winter because it had electric baseboard heating. We got that first $ 100 extra bill, and we learned to economize.

When we moved to Kentucky, we had a LOT of stuff, but Ace had already moved it all down because he was already working there.

Over the years, we have accumulated crap and more crap and more crap.

And do you know who the chief instigator of crap accumulation is?

Ace himself.

I should take a picture of his "workbench" in the basement. It is an abomination. Anything and everything that has EVER broken (except for his Atari) is on that bench. The Atari ... THIS should also have been an enlightening opportunity for me, too ... to allow me to see that this man is the world's WORST packrat. WORST. I think the only person who could be a tad worse is my FIL. The Atari was broken. He had this Atari since ... oh ... 1980? Yes. You read that right. This man held ON to his childhood Atari, even though it didn't work. Because you just NEVER know when I will be able to fix it ... then we can play it.

Seriously. When we were moving from the townhouse in Findlay, he was at work, so the Atari made it to the dumpster out back. Guess who went dumpster-diving after work? I can't remember exactly where the Atari met its rightful demise, but it was a sweet day in history.

So now we have these other "things." These other "you never know ... I might be able to fix it and use it again." Yeah ... I will be SO willing to start using some 10 year old appliance that has been sitting in our basement for over 6 years, gathering dust, acting as a home for God knows what down there.

I just don't have the stamina OR the patience to go down there and throw everything away. And it isn't just the workbench. It is the entire basement. It is HIS room down there. He has all sorts of shit down there, and he knows he can get away with it, because I only go down there to do laundry (if I even do that).

So, if you are looking for an appliance that hasn't worked for over 10 years, and some spider families, come on over to this house.

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Friday, May 26, 2006

Separated at birth

This woman and I are one in the same.

No. Not Vivien Leigh. I am not an alcoholic actress who was once married to Sir Laurence Olivier.

No. Scarlett O'Hara.

Scarlett's favorite saying: I won't think about that now. I'll think about that tomorrow. Because, tomorrow is another day!

Optimism? Maybe. She was optimistic, yes. I mean, who else could follow the same man throughout her life, thinking there was a future with him, when, in the end and at the death of the other man's wife, she comes to the realization that she loves Rhett. And then Rhett tells her to piss off.

But does she roll over and say "ok, Rhett. I will leave you alone."

No. She perseveres. She tells herself that she won't think about it now; she can't think about it now. She has to wait until tomorrow, because she thinks clearer when time has passed.

This woman ran her own business post-Civil War. This woman married Charles Hamilton, stealing him from his cousin. This woman married Frank Kennedy, stealing him from her sister. This woman coveted Ashley Hamilton for YEARS and YEARS. His wife, Melanie knew that Scarlett coveted Ashley, yet she opened her heart to Scarlett.

I can't say that I would have done the same.

Now. Am I a husband-stealer? No.

Am I a head-strong Southern woman? No on 50 percent of that. But I'm married to a Southern man. That should count for something.

Scarlett and I would have been the bestest of friends because we love to ....


I can't think of that now. I have to think about it tomorrow.

I can't do that now. I have to do that tomorrow because it isn't due until the following day.

See. Separated at birth, I tell ya!

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Thursday, May 25, 2006

Do you know what drives me batty?

When my mother comes over and in two minutes flat, she can offend me and bug the piss out of me at the same time.

She thinks that the Door Man needs his own room. Sure he does. He will get his own room, but not until the time that we decide the current setup isn't working anymore. The older kids have a different bedtime than the Monkey, so there you go. She just sees the Man as "the boy stuck in the middle between two sisters" who is somehow losing his identity. If anyone has seen the Man, they will know that is FAR from the truth. If ANYone has an identity crisis, it is Queen Bee. She just isn't a "strong" person. The Door Man, OTOH, is a VERY strong personality.

My mother sees him being bossed around on both ends. Yeah well, she wasn't here yesterday when I had to the Door Man to stop trying to be the father and to eat his lunch. I heard him tell the Monkey at least three times during lunch for her to eat and not drink so much of her milk.

So when she moved off of her "you need to put the Man in a room all to himself" kick, she moved on to my decision about redecorating our front bathroom. I want classic. I don't want cute. I don't want ducks, I don't want fish, I don't want anything that looks like it is a kids' bathroom (which it is). Mini Martha (my sister ... a good name for her) suggested the beach theme. That could be workable; I don't have a problem with that suggestion.

The Mominator, on the other hand, made the suggestion that Vera Bradley has this nice teal and brown combination. Well, Mom.. don't they just make purses? I can't really see where putting purses all over my walls would be considered decorating. She said "well, they make napkins ... you could use that as a valance." This idea was brought to light by Mini Martha, so that is the Mominator's suggestion EVERY SINGLE TIME... because, you know, MM has style; I don't. I don't have any creativity. I don't have any fashion sense. I can't decorate a house unless I receive 10000 different POVs because they are SOOOO necessary.

The taupe might be too dark for that room. Well thanks ... right now it is white, so really what do you have to base that comment on? It is a small room with a regular sized window.

Well, you can use those napkins for your valance. Yeah.... no. That doesn't help me with the shower curtain, does it?

No, but you could the napkins as your valance.

Yeah. Did you hear me the FIRST time when I said that doesn't help me at all with the shower curtain issue.

Well, no. But you could use the napkins as your valance and pull the color out in the curtain. You could make the curtain taupe.

yeah... to match my wall?

No ... that might be too much. You could make the curtain taupe, and paint the wall something different.

Seriously. Am I THAT pathetic? Am I THAT not pulled together? I don't think so. In fact, I know so.

Yeah. My taste might be eclectic. But at least I HAVE taste.

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Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Oh Queenie....

Hair product + a 7 year old = Dwight Schrute.

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In need of Extreme Makeover:Home Edition

Do you think it would be bad to "rent" a family who is in need, or pay actors to play us so we could get a brand-spanking new house?

Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind. I would LOVE to get a brand new house. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not being all un-PC about this. I do know that the people who get on that show have real life struggles and trials. They have paid their dues, and then some. They DO deserve to get a new house.

But how about a show that builds new houses for those of us who are decorationally challenged? I think that sounds like a plausible reason, don't you?

Take my house, for example. I am not the best housekeeper. Never have been, never will be. I need someone to build me a George Jetson house, complete with pushbuttons and voice activated cleaning products that just zip out of the walls, do their job, and zip back in the walls.

I am also not the next Martha Stewart. My sister has more style in her little pinky than I have if I cloned myself 20 times. She comes over and looks around, saying things like "you know what would look really cute here?" or "you need a valance in that bathroom" or "have you decided on a wall color yet?" She means well, really, but when you have mini-Martha coming in and making these suggestions, when you don't even remember if you wiped your child's butt when they went to the bathroom two minutes ago, does she really THINK that I care about the decor.

But now I am getting to a point in my life where I do care. I want to get rid of this carpet. I want something new, something fresh.

So I want a new house.

I am holding open auditions next week for people to play my family.

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Monday, May 22, 2006

Ah yes... summer in my hometown

The pool has water in it. They were putting the lines up this afternoon as we drove by. They were testing out the new water play area that was just installed over the winter.

The birds are chirping, the squirrels are eating the helicopters out of our eavespouts, and the wasps are trying in vain to make nests in our umbrella out in the backyard, but their efforts are thwarted every time I scream for Ace to come out and work his magic.

The grass is green and the playgrounds are filling to capacity.

And everywhere you turn, they have either graded down a street, leaving the sewer lids and gas lids exposed, marking them with their fluorescent pink spray, or they are doing the hometown version of "patching" the streets by filling in the cracks with that nasty asphalt in a hose stuff. Or they are driving directly in front of me with that street cleaner thing right after I have run my van through the carwash.

It is inevitable. For with spring and summer come the city work projects.

You know the ones. The ones where you are just flabbergasted that:

  • there are THAT many men employed with the city department;
  • there are barely any women at these scenes; if there are, they are wearing Daisy Dukes, sipping French Vanilla Cappucino out of their Speedway styrofoam coffee cups, and sporting a tan that would make George Hamilton jealous;
  • it takes 20 men to fill in one crack in the street; the others have to stand around with their hardhats on, pointing at random things across the street, even though those random *things* are the new cars parked in the dealership's parking lot *it looks SO official*;
  • ANYone could look like they know what they are doing if they sported a hardhat, a fluorescent yellow vest, and steel toed shoes, just as long as they are carrying a surveying instrument;
  • there is THAT much money in this town to be having SO many road projects going on at the same time.

Last year, our whole street and curbs were replaced. Taken out and filled back in. It was rather a fun summer. The kids had something to look at whenever they were in front of our house, and the Door Man made a lot of friends. He told one road crew that he loved them. He falls in and out of love so quickly, fickle boy that he is.

So this year, someone else gets to enjoy the fact that the road crew WILL take their lunchbreaks in your driveway and hold up your child's bus for a few minutes while they make a feeble attempt to get out of the way.

The sweet smell of asphalt and the pitter patter of jackhammers .... summer could be no sweeter.

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Saturday, May 20, 2006

What a wonderful day

The day started off with the whole family attending the Door Man's last soccer game for the spring season. We think he touched the ball three times: once out of self-defense, and twice out of coach-mandated kick offs. The Man isn't the next Pele. He isn't even the next preschool superstar. He is just the Door Man. Happy to be in the moment. Taking advantage of his time out there on the field to laugh and play with his friends and ... oh! What? Ball? Where? In front of me? Where? Oh yeah... someone else can get it.

Then there is Queen Bee, who has graduated to playing positions and keeping score. She was dutifully counting the goals this morning until I told her to keep her mouth shut because we didn't want to make the other team feel bad. I should have let her keep going, because after that point, it was a creamfest. But that is quite all right. The Door Man won't be making a career out of the sport.

Queenie had her second to last game today (well, really her last because she will be dancing her toes off in her recital that she is OH SO FREAKING EXCITED about), and the Monkey and I didn't attend. My punishment for not attending: seeing the Queen score the very first goal of the game on her kick-off, and then missing the awesome shot over the goalie's head. Had I gone, she wouldn't have done any of those things, and she would have been sitting out in the middle of the field, picking the dandelions.

The Monkey and I went to an open house, and I want this house. Of course, we won't get it because you should see OUR house. We have GOT to get this place shaped up, and I fear we will need to put down a chunk of money and recarpet the whole shebang.

There is rumor that we are going to go out and buy some kites for the kids, and go to the "big park" AKA the place with the huge-ass playground that Mom abhors. I am hoping the bubbles and kites will keep them out of the fort.

Have I told you that I have an arch nemesis at the Man's preschool? She is a bitch. She hates me, I hate her. It is a wonderful relationship we have. She is the type whose husband has some REALLY important job at some company here, and they live in some huge ass house out in some ritzy suburb.

The other day, I was all verklempf over a Mother's Day present the Man handed to me. It was his handprint, with a really sappy poem sure to make a mother cry. Well, it made this mother cry as I was reading the saying to Ace on the cell phone. Unfortunately, where I decided to plant my fat ass was RIGHT in front of her child's cubby. Well, her undies got all in a bind and she physically TAPPED me on the shoulder and said "excuse me" in a voice so condescending that Mother Theresa would have read this mother the riot act for her tone of voice.

I turned, and while on the phone with Ace, said "well apparently I am in SOMEone's way here ... would hate to impede the process of the princess' day" and she shot me this look.

That look.

That "eat poop and DIE a horrid, agonizing death" look.

I took great joy in hearing her recount the fact that her husband's company had to cancel HER cruise for some reason or another.

Maybe because karma's a bitch?

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Friday, May 19, 2006


Queen Bee proved her rightful place this morning in our household. This child can exasperate me in 0-75 mph in .1 second flat.

This morning:

Mommy ... how about I wear this outfit (comes out in a short skirt with orange and white flowers all over it and a new shirt that her Grammy (read: MIL) bought her with sequins and butterflies and some dance saying that ties at the waist ... I have now referred to said shirt as the Hoochie Mama shirt ... and said shirt is white with pink lettering).

Queenie ... you really don't need to be wearing such a little skirt for weather that isn't supposed to get into the 60s today. Go find something else. And besides, the shirt and skirt are not a match, and you will not wear the halter top shirt that DOES match that outfit.

Note to self: omit last sentence to save future headaches.

Well, how about this? (wearing the SAME skirt and a shirt with RED lettering on it ... but much more tasteful).

Trying to teach her that she needs to take stock in what she chooses to wear, I told her NO for the second time, stating that the shirt doesn't match.

Note to self: here is yet ANOTHER opportunity for me to have alleviated the future headache and just told her NO on the skirt altogether).

Mommy... can you get this stain out (holding out a shirt that has been stained for, oh, six months, and NOW she is worried about the stain ... now let's think of this combination: the shirt is horizontal orange and variations of pink stripes .... with the SAME orange and white Hula flower skirt).


Queenie goes stomping off to her room, and FINALLY emerges in a wonderful outfit. Ok, I conceded on the Hoochie Mama shirt but she had on a beautiful Mudd skirt that graced the floor with its hem. She looked wonderful. I TOLD her she looked wonderful.

Dear friends, you would think this would be the end of Clothing Smackdown 2006. But it isn't. Far from it.

The bus picks Queenie up at 8:30. She entered her room at .... get this .... 7:50!!!! to start getting ready and it was already 8:15.

She re-enters her room, and emerges in a variation of the orange and white floral skirt, but this one MATCHES the Hoochie Mama skirt. Now ... mind you, the HM shirt CAME with a skirt, but that wasn't GOOD enough for her because it has that .... oh no ... buttonhole elastic that adjusts the waist from the .... GOD forbid ... INSIDE!

I looked at Queenie, who informed me that the most recent outfit change was due to the fact that she could NOT wear flip flops OR tennis shoes with the free flowing, floor-length skirt. It just wouldn't LOOK right. But dressing in some little skirt in 55 degree weather with a tshirt DID look right.

I told her that she could find other, respectable shoes to go with the long skirt and shirt combo. Well, she erupted in what I would liken to Tourettes Syndrome, without the profanity. It was U-G-L-Y!

At this point, she is back in her room, having her nuclear meltdown, and I am getting ready to call in some HazMat team, when I tell her that she WILL wear the long skirt and shirt and if she didn't get ready in time, the bus would leave her at the house, where she would meet a fate worse than death: spending the whole day in her room, cleaning it from top to bottom.

She SAT there. She DEFIANTLY SAT on her bed, giving me the Sicilian evil eye. I told her that she had lost all Constitutional rights and privileges (it is HELL to be the daughter of a legal eagle) of choosing her clothing for the rest of the school year. I pulled out THE worst clothing change for her, a pair of Levi jeans, and told her that if those jeans weren't on her rear end by the time I left the room, she would be one sorry puppy. I took the long skirt with her because, by golly, I wasn't going to have her putting that on after ALL of this.

She screamed. She threw fits. She acted like a horse's ass. She exclaimed that she WANTED to wear the long skirt. She NEEDED to wear the long skirt. I told her it was WAY too late for that, Charley. The Door Man wanted to know why Charley, our plumber, was in the house.

I went back to my room to get ready to take Door Man to school, and I could hear the bus. I had to go wave it on, thinking to myself "I will be DAMNED if I am going to spend the whole day with the surly girl." So I decided to torture her and tell her tha she wasn't going to school. That lasted oh 4 minutes until we had to leave to take the Man to school, and I told her to grab her backpack.

And do you know what she had the AUDACITY to do when ALL of this was over? She needed to take a folder back to school for her assignments. She couldn't find hers, which is no surprise because we have had to send numerous search and rescues out to find it for her. We are getting ready to leave, and she starts SEARCHING for this folder. I found her old, Strawberry Shortcake folder. But MOMMY!!!! This is my KINDERGARTEN FOLDER!

Give me the flipping strength.

So she went off to school in her Levi jeans and the Hoochie Mama outfit with no folder in her backpack. I can't wait for her to explain to her bus friends why she didn't ride the bus this morning. I am sure the explanation will have some variation of her mother being a beyotch, and she's moving out next week ... taking her Hoochie Mama shirt and orange and white floral skirt and nothing else.

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Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Are attitudes learned?

Because I swear, the Monkey is learning at a fast pace.

That is all.

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Monday, May 15, 2006

Garage Sales

Ok. I love garage sales .... sometimes. I don't mind putting them on. But I don't like to be *told* when I will be having my next sale.

My family does it to me. I am the *central* location (read: the only one in town), so that makes me the prime target for all sales to be held. They will say "when is your next sale?" or "let's do a sale soon, ok? I need some money."

We ALL NEED money, don't we?

So now, my inlaws have joined in on the "let's do a sale ... at YOUR house." They are traveling ALL the way with their goods on a trailer. Their reasoning: we have more success at garage sales. That could mean one of two things: (1) we have developed a rep for our sales or (2) my hometown is white trash, and theirs isn't. I would like to say it is number one, but I might be leaning toward number two.

They are carting who knows what up here, and don't aske me what they are going to do when/if it doesn't sell. It won't be taking up residence in my garage, I tell ya.

Our sales are normally rained on or the weather is abfab. That means that, if the former, noone comes because of the weather and, if the latter, noone comes because of the weather.

We have brought in droves when we have had our Longaberger collections for sale because we were known to sell at rock bottom prices. Well, when you don't buy anymore to replenish that collection, the collection runs dry, as it has here. We will now move on to the 4000 pieces of Correlle *dinnerware* that shatters when it falls on the floor. Shatters. Have you ever had a piece of Correlle shatter on you? It doesn't just go in one direction. It is omnidirectional. And my kids have this innate ability to be (1) eating lunch and need to get down RIGHT then to go to the bathroom or (2) wanting to walk through the kitchen at that very moment that I have dropped the bowl or plate.

So we need to decide what, other than the 50000000000000 items of children's clothing that we are going to offer for this sale in order to make it worthwhile for us. Queen Bee will sell her cookies and lemonade, Door Man will go through his old possessions in the garage, demanding to have it back or screaming because someone just walked off with it, and the Chandelier Monkey will be running out into oncoming traffic because we will be so busy with customers.

It will be a fun day had by one and all. The time to avoid this fiasco is the second weekend of next month .... so don't come around here unless you want to be put to work.

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Monday, May 08, 2006

Time for a change

It seriously is time for a change in my life. I am sick of the way the things are right now. I am sick of carrying the insurance. I am sick of being the one who HAS to have THIS job in order to make it.

I am sick of the legal profession. I am sick of being a provider of such boring information. I am sick of being managed by someone who only talks to me when things are going well on my end. I am sick of waiting for the axe to fall, and hear "you are fired" because of my relaxed attitude toward work. Because really ... I don't care anymore. I have lost the interest in this job that I once had. I used to think that returning to the "regular" work world would depress me.

Will I miss my kids? Heck yes. But I will still see them. When I think about it, with the time that I HAVE to spend at this computer, it is the same thing, except I have to get up to make lunch, and put out small fires every single moment of the day.

Would I love this job more if I could just sit here and work it with no interruptions? No. I have lost the enjoyment of just doing the job. Day in and day out, nothing new. The same old same old. The cases don't even interest me because really .... I don't read them. I skim them for information.

I have hit that point in my life where I WANT and NEED a change, but there is nothing lined up. I need to get some feelers out there. I have already sent a resume over to a place across the street, but of course, in their typical fashion, I have heard NOTHING from them. I don't know if I should overstep the boundaries, and send my resume directly to a friend of mine. He is a VP over there, but that did absolutely nothing for Ace when he applied there. But then, I am a little more marketable than Ace (nothing against him, but I have eight plus years of solid work experience at one place, and a law degree). But obviously that means nothing over there....

I am at SUCH a huge crossroads right now. Who would do all of the kid things? Could I rely on my Mom for the summer months, and some of the days of the week? I am sure, if I paid her, she certainly would consider it. It would be an awesome deal if I could work something out with her.

I just need to do something.

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Wednesday, May 03, 2006

GAH! I HATE toys!!!!

My kids have a ton of toys. A TON of them. And not just the nice, wooden, hand-me-down, keepsakes ... the plastic junk. And the worst offenders: the kids' meal toys. The ones that beep and make noise, and shoot things out of mouths, and hang from backpacks. I don't mind the ones that hang from backpacks because those go to school with the Queen. However, I am now being entertained by the Monkey and the Man, playing with those God-forsaken Burger King handheld toys.

But do you know the ONE toy that I abhor most, the coup d'etat in the struggle with positioning themselves in my kids' lives (meaning the inlaws): the Cookie Monster saxophone.

This toy has NO volume control. The volume is set at ear-splitting loud. And it has a speed control, so add that to the true enjoyment of the toy. There is NOTHING quite like listening to Rock Around the Clock at 50,000 different, ADD-inducing speeds. It has now met a demise of which noone speaks.

And guess what? Just about EVERY toy that is on the floor is going to meet the same demise today. There will be screams of horror when the Man and Monkey see me throw these treasures away.

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Monday, May 01, 2006

A pet peeve

I have quite a few pet peeves... just ask Ace.

Chili is NOT chili soup. If chili were chili soup, they would have called it chili soup. It is chili. It is in a category all its own.

That nasty stuff that accumulates at the top of the kids' toothpaste. Just that extra toothpaste that just seems to accumulate over time, making me throw away a relatively new tube of toothpaste. Yuck.

Boys who can't hit the toilet to save their lives, and Moms who don't remember that fact when they walk in the bathroom in their bare feet.

Max and Ruby. They have NO parents on this show. The creator's comment on that: it teaches kids to work problems out on their own. Really? Then why do mine scream at one another still? Television ain't doing what it's supposed to be doing, IMHO.

Indated. Now, this term is only used by my ex Vice-President (now President) of my former place of work. InUNdated was what he would be going for; somehow he never got it through his thick skull that indated is NOT a word.

Video tapes that aren't re-wound, no matter whose they are ... ours, the library's, the video store's. Drives me insane.

But one of my biggest: when someone in a position of power (not like Hitler, dictatorial power) has a beef with a few people and doesn't take it to those few people, they take it to the group as a whole, leaving the group scratching its head, saying "what was THAT about?"

Case in point: Wednesday night ... we had choir practice. Everything was fine until the last hour when our director said he had to talk to us about something. He read some canned document with general applicability, and then moved on to the specific. Of course, the specific spoken in vague generalities, hence the feelings of confusion. Only a select few (and the select few who ALWAYS are in the know) knew what was going on; the rest of us had NO clue.

When you have a beef with someone, you don't address EVERYone about it. You go to the person, the source, to handle the situation. Because when you address the whole, the whole feels a little chastised, and not as receptive to the person who has addressed the group. Don't treat me as if I have the problem, because I don't. Sure, I can make a snarky comment or two, but when it all boils down to it, I will defend someone if I think they are doing the job correctly.

So step up to the plate and be a man or a woman about it. Don't hide behind the generalities to talk about the specifics. It doesn't fly well with me.

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The Lovely She, that is me!

I'm a mom of three peeps ... Queen Bee, The Door Man, and the Chandelier Monkey, and wife to Ace, the Helpful Hardware Man. I created this space to get away from the people known as my inlaws, and because life with three kids and a hubby is all Unexplored Territory.

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The nine-year-old who seems to be growing older every minute, has an opinion and a comment for everything, and has a true servant's heart.
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The seven-year-old who loves the organization of things, will someday be someone's therapist because of his kind soul, and will more than likely be living with us until he is 40 years old.
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The five-year-old with the 13-year-old attitude, who has a dictator's personality, asks you to watch her all the time and say "hold on" to keep your attention, and will someday come home on the back of some dude's motorcycle with 10 tatts and a body piercing or two.

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The man of the house, the fixer of things, the winner of prizes, and the only person in his family to escape the South.

Retiring the Blog
A Blast from the Past
Just nothing today ....
Move over, Mom
Because life wasn't exciting enough....
Mystic Pizza
Starting off on the wrong foot
A convo at our house
My 6 am dreams
This, my friends, is the true definition of TMI


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