We argue about absolutely everything in our house. The inmates and the management have a series of disagreements as noted below. Management (italicized)
Types of mustard? Dijon? You're a fool.
Politics? Andrew ripped up the note left by a conservative city council member in our front door. I don't like this person. Honestly, it's City Council and they're not trying to put a colony on the moon populated by outcast Perrybsurg residents. On the upside, I have convinced Andrew that Mitt is short for "Mittens."
The Drinking Age? This is a big deal. It's 21, maybe it should be 18. (Um, no, it's not). In Belgium it's 14, are you going to stop me from drinking in Belgium. Um, ya.Or you can drink and then try to get up at 6am to go through a Flemish art exhibit. Your choice.
Laundry There is not a vortex around the laundry basket. Yes there is. No, there's not- you're just a lazy slob. Maybe my arms are broken. Don't you feel sorry for me?
Clean Clothes. Fold your clothes. I washed them, you fold. What? Am I your slave? As a matter of fact, yes, yes you are.
Homework Is it done? Of course, it's mostly done. Mostly done doesn't count. Yes it does, I'll do it later. Why do it later if you can do it now?What if there's an asteroid? As if.
On Leaving early I don't need to leave now. You're evil. Yes, I'm evil, you need to be early. Being early is for nerds. Are you kidding me? I'm never late. If you're on time, you're late. So leave early. No, I can't be seen early. What?
The couch You're taking up 2/3 of the couch. So what, I'm 6 foot 4. I don't care, I bought the couch. Move over. No, I can't fit there. Then sit on the floor. That's abuse. So be it.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Weird Stress Dreams
Andrew just told me that I blog when I'm stressed. I've been gritting my teeth all day. My jaw hurts, but I'm pretty sure I could crush marbles.
I know I'm whacked out when I have weird dreams. Last night, I was a volunteer in an orphanage. I went from room to room and picked up babies. (Weirder still is that I do not like babies. OK, before you send me hate mail, some babies are OK, but they're gooey and smelly and they make funny noises. Yes, I had them, but that wasn't my favorite.) So there I was the baby-phobe manhandling babies. I kind of took a shine to a baby named Derek. Derek suddenly turned into a 3 year old with really broad shoulders and a head that looked like he could smash rocks. But I kind of liked Derek so I picked him up and of course Tim was standing there because anyone can appear at any time in any dream. I said "Hey, I want to adopt Derek." Before Tim could even start to scream, the smart card fell out of Derek and he broke into little lego sized pieced. Poof. Gone. Wow, I said to the orphanage people, I broke your baby. Incidentally, you might want to warn people that your babies are run off of microchips. Then I woke up.
Strange. Not as strange as the recurring elephant nightmare I used to have as a kid. I was in a large circus tent full of elephants that were multiplying at a rapid clip and I was running out of air. Poof, I'd wake up. I think I had that dream like 400 times and it still gives me the creeps. Hopefully Derek doesn't reappear since I smashed his smart card. Again, that was an accident. I'm not homicidal. Honest.
I know I'm whacked out when I have weird dreams. Last night, I was a volunteer in an orphanage. I went from room to room and picked up babies. (Weirder still is that I do not like babies. OK, before you send me hate mail, some babies are OK, but they're gooey and smelly and they make funny noises. Yes, I had them, but that wasn't my favorite.) So there I was the baby-phobe manhandling babies. I kind of took a shine to a baby named Derek. Derek suddenly turned into a 3 year old with really broad shoulders and a head that looked like he could smash rocks. But I kind of liked Derek so I picked him up and of course Tim was standing there because anyone can appear at any time in any dream. I said "Hey, I want to adopt Derek." Before Tim could even start to scream, the smart card fell out of Derek and he broke into little lego sized pieced. Poof. Gone. Wow, I said to the orphanage people, I broke your baby. Incidentally, you might want to warn people that your babies are run off of microchips. Then I woke up.
Strange. Not as strange as the recurring elephant nightmare I used to have as a kid. I was in a large circus tent full of elephants that were multiplying at a rapid clip and I was running out of air. Poof, I'd wake up. I think I had that dream like 400 times and it still gives me the creeps. Hopefully Derek doesn't reappear since I smashed his smart card. Again, that was an accident. I'm not homicidal. Honest.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Crazy
'Tis interesting that in all the few years that I've been slogging through this blog that I've never titled a blog, "Crazy." Considering that I feel crazy most of the time perhaps there's not generally a need to actually label the girl as actually "crazy." I prefer "sanity challenged."
The "management" continues to have issues with the "tenants" (read teenagers). For one, what gives with the locking yourself in the bathroom whenever there's a request to do something difficult like, get up out of the bed you've been ensconced in for 12 hours or to turn off the light in your room? I have keys to the bathroom so locking yourself in there does nothing but make me see those little stars in my peripheral vision (my own personal Leonid meteor shower).
However, the management did have one break- through with at least one tenant this week. I keep saying "You have to have a plan. Have a plan. Make up a plan. Strive for something- for so help me God and as God as my witness and we may be dealing with an angry Old Testament God- if you are living in my basement some day, I will just do something undesirable in your general direction."(I don't know what and I'm not commiting to what thing I might do because I shouldn't be using the energy to think about this.)
You know what? One of them came up with a plan. It's a plan that actually has some potential and it involves cash money and college tuition (not paid by me, although I'll happily pay) and a job and an occupation. Of course, I'm not holding the tenant, I mean kid, to this. But, it's a plan!
The other kid doesn't have a plan and no matter how many conversation hearts I speed eat while I type this, I cannot impose upon him a plan. I suppose he'll come up with something one of these days. I hope it involves cash money and maybe a Winnebago for me and Tim. That would be nice.
Back to the crazy, if I have to explain where the crazy fits into all this, then you don't know me at all. For the record, I feel very sane except for the stars.
The "management" continues to have issues with the "tenants" (read teenagers). For one, what gives with the locking yourself in the bathroom whenever there's a request to do something difficult like, get up out of the bed you've been ensconced in for 12 hours or to turn off the light in your room? I have keys to the bathroom so locking yourself in there does nothing but make me see those little stars in my peripheral vision (my own personal Leonid meteor shower).
However, the management did have one break- through with at least one tenant this week. I keep saying "You have to have a plan. Have a plan. Make up a plan. Strive for something- for so help me God and as God as my witness and we may be dealing with an angry Old Testament God- if you are living in my basement some day, I will just do something undesirable in your general direction."(I don't know what and I'm not commiting to what thing I might do because I shouldn't be using the energy to think about this.)
You know what? One of them came up with a plan. It's a plan that actually has some potential and it involves cash money and college tuition (not paid by me, although I'll happily pay) and a job and an occupation. Of course, I'm not holding the tenant, I mean kid, to this. But, it's a plan!
The other kid doesn't have a plan and no matter how many conversation hearts I speed eat while I type this, I cannot impose upon him a plan. I suppose he'll come up with something one of these days. I hope it involves cash money and maybe a Winnebago for me and Tim. That would be nice.
Back to the crazy, if I have to explain where the crazy fits into all this, then you don't know me at all. For the record, I feel very sane except for the stars.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Nun and Some Kleenex
I met with my very favorite nun again today despite the fact that the world was conspiring against me.
At 7:01 am I pushed the button to open the garage so A&P could catch the bus. Nothing happened. After pounding on the button, still nothing happened. Tim came to the rescue. Thank goodness we can pull the red hanging emergency rope to get out of the garage! It came off in his hand.
By this time, A&P were on the bus and me and Tim were standing in the garage in our robes trying to figure out how to get out-like rats in a one box maze. A few bolts removed here and there and we were free until I couldn't find my keys and I was further delayed. Do you ever wonder if the universe is delaying you so that you don't get wiped out by an asteroid or something while you're waiting at a stop light? No such thing fell in P-burg today, but it could have and I made it to work alive.
After all that, I made it to see the nun too. I asked her if God broke the door and hid my keys. She is so cool and calm. It's probably because she doesn't have children. Although, she does live with other nuns and apparently nuns can be kind of tough to live with. I may have her beat because I'm certain that nuns don't leave underwear in the middle of the bathroom floor for two weeks until the other nuns flip out and demand it be removed or there will be "sanctions" from the "management."
I'm also certain that A&P are funnier than those nuns. We've had a running commentary with A&P for the last week and a half about our trip to the post office to file our passport applications. Next to us at the counter was a lady mailing a very big box. Her parcel was packed into a giant box that had shipped Kleenex at one point in time. She answered appropriately when the postal service representative inquired as to the presence of explosives, liquids or other illegal substances. Good for her but it got Peter to thinking, why was she shipping all that Kleenex. We roared and laughed and pointed at him and made him feel small whilst we hooted. "Seriously," we scolded, "it's the shipping box!"
Indignant, Peter replied cooly, "How do you know that? Maybe she bought some Kleenex online from Amazon, doesn't like it and is returning it."
We chortled some more.
"You don't know that there isn't Kleenex in there! Maybe she has a relative with a cold."
I laughed so hard that I snorted. (I hate it when that happens. I think I did that at work today, but not in front of the nun.)
The Kleenex debate is renewed almost daily. Peter's still convinced the lady was shipping Kleenex, but maybe he's right. Regardless, we still whoop and wail it's so funny.
Nuns laugh, but I bet they don't snort. If the garage doesn't open tomorrow and my keys are misplaced, I'm not going to try so hard to leave. I'll curl up with some Kleenex and call it a day in case the asteroid is coming.
At 7:01 am I pushed the button to open the garage so A&P could catch the bus. Nothing happened. After pounding on the button, still nothing happened. Tim came to the rescue. Thank goodness we can pull the red hanging emergency rope to get out of the garage! It came off in his hand.
By this time, A&P were on the bus and me and Tim were standing in the garage in our robes trying to figure out how to get out-like rats in a one box maze. A few bolts removed here and there and we were free until I couldn't find my keys and I was further delayed. Do you ever wonder if the universe is delaying you so that you don't get wiped out by an asteroid or something while you're waiting at a stop light? No such thing fell in P-burg today, but it could have and I made it to work alive.
After all that, I made it to see the nun too. I asked her if God broke the door and hid my keys. She is so cool and calm. It's probably because she doesn't have children. Although, she does live with other nuns and apparently nuns can be kind of tough to live with. I may have her beat because I'm certain that nuns don't leave underwear in the middle of the bathroom floor for two weeks until the other nuns flip out and demand it be removed or there will be "sanctions" from the "management."
I'm also certain that A&P are funnier than those nuns. We've had a running commentary with A&P for the last week and a half about our trip to the post office to file our passport applications. Next to us at the counter was a lady mailing a very big box. Her parcel was packed into a giant box that had shipped Kleenex at one point in time. She answered appropriately when the postal service representative inquired as to the presence of explosives, liquids or other illegal substances. Good for her but it got Peter to thinking, why was she shipping all that Kleenex. We roared and laughed and pointed at him and made him feel small whilst we hooted. "Seriously," we scolded, "it's the shipping box!"
Indignant, Peter replied cooly, "How do you know that? Maybe she bought some Kleenex online from Amazon, doesn't like it and is returning it."
We chortled some more.
"You don't know that there isn't Kleenex in there! Maybe she has a relative with a cold."
I laughed so hard that I snorted. (I hate it when that happens. I think I did that at work today, but not in front of the nun.)
The Kleenex debate is renewed almost daily. Peter's still convinced the lady was shipping Kleenex, but maybe he's right. Regardless, we still whoop and wail it's so funny.
Nuns laugh, but I bet they don't snort. If the garage doesn't open tomorrow and my keys are misplaced, I'm not going to try so hard to leave. I'll curl up with some Kleenex and call it a day in case the asteroid is coming.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Good Enough
There's a fine line between perfection and good enough. Or if you ask the nun I've been working with for the last few months (she's been helping me learn how to stop being insane and just "be." I'm not sure if it's working or not- OK, it's not), it's a big chasm between perfection and good enough.
(She's a delightful, very centered nun. Probably perfect although I would get in trouble for saying that.)
Perfection: Eye Liner, mascara, contoured eye shadow and $150 eye cream
Good Enough: Glasses. No one can see the bloodshot eyes because of the glare.
Perfection: Iced martini glass, frozen shaker, filtered water ice cubes with suspended raspberries, Dutch vodka and lemon liquor and sugar rimmed crystal glass.
Good Enough: Mid Shelf Vodka and a straw (note that even in the good enough category, it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the bottom shelf.)
Perfection: Even keeled response to all stressful professional situations. (No threats of homicide or bodily injury on myself or others either for affect or as a true threat to the general public.)
Good Enough: Feeling hateful and occasionally spitting.
Perfection: Dressed and fed children reading "War and Peace" on Christmas break while studying ahead for winter finals.
Good Enough: Out of bed before noon, dressed by 5pm, please A&P. And there are frozen waffles, knock yourselves out.
If I can only pound this into my thick, thick skull: good enough is all that anyone asks of you, me or that lady down the street with the perfect Christmas lights. The little voice in the back of my head is really bothered by the laundry in the bathroom and the fruit flies and the cat hair and the dust on the floor in the hall. Said another way, if God wanted things to be perfect I'm certain we wouldn't be celebrating a stable and some stinky shepherds with their equally foul sheep with the accompanying excrement. Or those wise men? Really, Frankincense, aren't those stinky bath salts that the kid can smoke to get high? A savings bond would be way more appropriate.
Lastly, even without the perfect combo of 5 fruits and vegetables per day, my monster children are 6 foot 3 at age 14. God obviously allows for some wiggle room on the requirements.
I declare this post, good enough. If I say it 100 times, maybe I'll believe it.
(She's a delightful, very centered nun. Probably perfect although I would get in trouble for saying that.)
Perfection: Eye Liner, mascara, contoured eye shadow and $150 eye cream
Good Enough: Glasses. No one can see the bloodshot eyes because of the glare.
Perfection: Iced martini glass, frozen shaker, filtered water ice cubes with suspended raspberries, Dutch vodka and lemon liquor and sugar rimmed crystal glass.
Good Enough: Mid Shelf Vodka and a straw (note that even in the good enough category, it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the bottom shelf.)
Perfection: Even keeled response to all stressful professional situations. (No threats of homicide or bodily injury on myself or others either for affect or as a true threat to the general public.)
Good Enough: Feeling hateful and occasionally spitting.
Perfection: Dressed and fed children reading "War and Peace" on Christmas break while studying ahead for winter finals.
Good Enough: Out of bed before noon, dressed by 5pm, please A&P. And there are frozen waffles, knock yourselves out.
If I can only pound this into my thick, thick skull: good enough is all that anyone asks of you, me or that lady down the street with the perfect Christmas lights. The little voice in the back of my head is really bothered by the laundry in the bathroom and the fruit flies and the cat hair and the dust on the floor in the hall. Said another way, if God wanted things to be perfect I'm certain we wouldn't be celebrating a stable and some stinky shepherds with their equally foul sheep with the accompanying excrement. Or those wise men? Really, Frankincense, aren't those stinky bath salts that the kid can smoke to get high? A savings bond would be way more appropriate.
Lastly, even without the perfect combo of 5 fruits and vegetables per day, my monster children are 6 foot 3 at age 14. God obviously allows for some wiggle room on the requirements.
I declare this post, good enough. If I say it 100 times, maybe I'll believe it.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Retooling
Here's what's going on my head.
Should I blog? Nah, it's too much work. Easier to drink at night and then fall asleep drooling on the pillow.
Wait, someone might think I have a problem. (Define, problem? I'm above ground, how bad can it be?)
I can't blog about nearly 15 year old boys because that's embarrassing. Somehow, along the line, I became embarrassing. This probably occurred around the time I dropped some kids off at school in my Christmas pajamas and it was May and sunny at 7:30 in the morning and everyone could see that my jammies had Christmas ornaments on them.
It's been an interesting few months. I won't bore you but suffice it to say we're all still kicking. This reminds me, speaking of kicking, hold one moment, while I scream the following (it's like in real time!)
Me: PETER! ARE YOU PLANNING ON DOING ANYTHING WITH YOUR LAUNDRY?
Peter: Ya, when this show is over.
Me: THAT'S STUPID. JUST GO PUT YOUR CLOTHES IN THE DRYER.
Peter: 5 minutes.
Honestly. Turn off the lights. Pick up the shoes. Push in the chair. Don't smoke dope. Use your napkin. Stay away from whores. It's really rather simple.
I thought if I turned to God that maybe I'd have a better chance of raising the urchins or at least keeping one of them out of prison. I'm pretty sure you have to push the chairs in at prison. I'm pretty sure that God doesn't think I've got this under control.
At dinner tonight:
Me: PLEASE DON'T USE DOPE. I read some article about high school students and reefer and I'm totally freaked out.
Kid: I don't use marijuana, Mom.
Me: Well then stop watching that reefer madness show and telling me how much money you could make if you moved to California and opened your own dope pharmacy.
Kid: It's just a show.
Me: I'm turning off the cable. Don't do stupid stuff.
Kid: Like in college when you hid in the bushes so you didn't get arrested? Dumb like that Mom?
So, to blog or not to blog. What comes out of my head and onto the fingertips may be a problem.
Should I blog? Nah, it's too much work. Easier to drink at night and then fall asleep drooling on the pillow.
Wait, someone might think I have a problem. (Define, problem? I'm above ground, how bad can it be?)
I can't blog about nearly 15 year old boys because that's embarrassing. Somehow, along the line, I became embarrassing. This probably occurred around the time I dropped some kids off at school in my Christmas pajamas and it was May and sunny at 7:30 in the morning and everyone could see that my jammies had Christmas ornaments on them.
It's been an interesting few months. I won't bore you but suffice it to say we're all still kicking. This reminds me, speaking of kicking, hold one moment, while I scream the following (it's like in real time!)
Me: PETER! ARE YOU PLANNING ON DOING ANYTHING WITH YOUR LAUNDRY?
Peter: Ya, when this show is over.
Me: THAT'S STUPID. JUST GO PUT YOUR CLOTHES IN THE DRYER.
Peter: 5 minutes.
Honestly. Turn off the lights. Pick up the shoes. Push in the chair. Don't smoke dope. Use your napkin. Stay away from whores. It's really rather simple.
I thought if I turned to God that maybe I'd have a better chance of raising the urchins or at least keeping one of them out of prison. I'm pretty sure you have to push the chairs in at prison. I'm pretty sure that God doesn't think I've got this under control.
At dinner tonight:
Me: PLEASE DON'T USE DOPE. I read some article about high school students and reefer and I'm totally freaked out.
Kid: I don't use marijuana, Mom.
Me: Well then stop watching that reefer madness show and telling me how much money you could make if you moved to California and opened your own dope pharmacy.
Kid: It's just a show.
Me: I'm turning off the cable. Don't do stupid stuff.
Kid: Like in college when you hid in the bushes so you didn't get arrested? Dumb like that Mom?
So, to blog or not to blog. What comes out of my head and onto the fingertips may be a problem.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Sex
I knew that would get your attention. And this post really is about sex, or not having any.
So when you're 14 and on your way to High School in the fall, there's stuff that needs to be discussed. Some people don't like to discuss it and I am sitting in a house of 4 people that would rather debate the efficacy of mold retardants than talk about sex.
After confirmation, the church decided it was really important to beat the confirmands senseless with what they should and should definitely not be doing in high school, or anywhere while in high school. In our case, knocking up young ladies. There were two sessions about keeping yourself pure and A&P were hauled to both of them.
I tried in vain to get information about what was presented. I got nothing. I was getting most of my information from a friend whose son told her everything. Feeling jealous and let down, I figured I was being frozen out of the purity information. But I thought I'd try anyway.
Wednesday at dinner I said to them "Just tell me one thing that you learned at church." Peter replied, "one in four people has an STD." Hey, that's pleasant. I kept myself together and asked "What do you do to keep from getting an STD?" Loaded question, not sure where this is going to go.... Andrew says emphatically, "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!" Oh good. That's great advice. Every time you leave the house for the rest of your life, I will implore you to KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. They learned something!
Later when downloading with Tim, he confessed that Peter had shared in the car on the way home that one in four people has an STD. This is how this conversation went.
P: One in 4 people has an STD
T: Well, I don't have an STD... so I'm pretty sure neither of you has an STD.... and there are 4 people in our family... who does that leave?
Nice, thanks.
So when you're 14 and on your way to High School in the fall, there's stuff that needs to be discussed. Some people don't like to discuss it and I am sitting in a house of 4 people that would rather debate the efficacy of mold retardants than talk about sex.
After confirmation, the church decided it was really important to beat the confirmands senseless with what they should and should definitely not be doing in high school, or anywhere while in high school. In our case, knocking up young ladies. There were two sessions about keeping yourself pure and A&P were hauled to both of them.
I tried in vain to get information about what was presented. I got nothing. I was getting most of my information from a friend whose son told her everything. Feeling jealous and let down, I figured I was being frozen out of the purity information. But I thought I'd try anyway.
Wednesday at dinner I said to them "Just tell me one thing that you learned at church." Peter replied, "one in four people has an STD." Hey, that's pleasant. I kept myself together and asked "What do you do to keep from getting an STD?" Loaded question, not sure where this is going to go.... Andrew says emphatically, "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!" Oh good. That's great advice. Every time you leave the house for the rest of your life, I will implore you to KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. They learned something!
Later when downloading with Tim, he confessed that Peter had shared in the car on the way home that one in four people has an STD. This is how this conversation went.
P: One in 4 people has an STD
T: Well, I don't have an STD... so I'm pretty sure neither of you has an STD.... and there are 4 people in our family... who does that leave?
Nice, thanks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
My, my time flies...
