My Christmas Ditty

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house,
Every creature was stirring including the mouse.
The stockings are flung in the hearth with good aim,
A fire hazard just waiting, to burst into flame.
 
The children refusing to go to their beds,
While visions of I-Phones rang in their heads.
And mum with her shopping and wrapping to do,
Don't forget baking and Christmas cards too.

Sid with her mega dumps, Grady the same,
No doubt in my mind, their father to blame.
Please, less time in the bathroom, and more time spent cleaning
Dusting & polish, I want the house gleaming

Homework and spelling, current events too,
As if there wasn't already, enough stuff to do.
Buffets to bake for, the choice is made clear
Mars Bar squares called for, the teachers all cheer.

The snow keeps on falling, a fair sight 'tis true,
But shoveling the driveway, I hate to do.
The task given to Grady, to earn extra cash
He'll spend it on Lego, gone in a flash.

The best Christmas Tree ever, standing so tall,
Hasn't crashed down yet, 'tis tied to the wall.
The glass balls so shiny, so pretty to see,
'Til the fucking cat smashes them to smithereens.

Lots of chocolates I bought, I thought I was done,
But my children are pigs, haven left me but one,
They think this is funny, their laughter so mocking
Just wait 'til they get only coal in their stockings.

My ditty must soon come to an end, 
Gifts still to wrap, cards still to send,
One last thing I'd like to make clear, 
Happy Christmas to all, and be of good cheer. 

I sincerely hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season with loved ones, and I will be back blogging on January 5th.

How I spent My Weekend

Here it is the last weekend before Christmas and how did this dysfunctional family spend it ? Let me begin. 

Harken back to Friday night when we are trying to determine why there is a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor. Spilled drink ? Wet boots ? Spiteful cat ? I wish. No, the water was actually dripping through the light fixture on our kitchen ceiling. It had been raining all day, and now it would appear we had a leak in our roof. Probably those bastard raccoons trying to gain access again. 

Saturday dawns bright, early and icy. Freezing rain overnight had put paid to any attempt on the part of my husband to head up to the roof and check on the cause of our leak. Anyone who follows this blog knows if it wasn't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all, so Rob scrambling over an icy roof was just another accident waiting to happen.

However before we can think about this, Rob tells me to hasten and check out the back yard with him. It turned out we had a - live - possum playing dead, in our lilac tree. So at 7:30 I am in the back garden, in my nightgown and winter boots - a fetching image - checking out a possum glaring balefully at me from behind a tree trunk.  Ready to share the misery I insist that my children are woken so they to can share in this exciting discovery. Do you detect a hint of sarcasm ? I certainly hope so. I have to feel sorry for the possum, he picked the wrong house for a nap. He was probably out here cursing his wretched luck. 

By the afternoon, the leak in the kitchen which had previously ceased had started anew, and Rob, despite my entreaties  to the contrary explored the roof, without any luck, so we position a bucket and hope for the best. I am the last one to bed that night, having stayed up to put on one last load of laundry. You can imagine my horror when I hear a strangled squealing sound coming from the washing machine. Are you kidding me ? This would not be the first time that particular appliance had crapped out on me right before Christmas.  I don't have too long to dwell on this however, because the next moment the washing machine comes to a sudden stop as the power goes out.  As I read this blog to my husband before posting, he jumped to the wrong conclusion. As I got to the part about the "strangled squealing sound" he immediately thought of the guinea pig.

It is pitch black in the basement, and in my effort to make it to the stairs I was like a human pinball, bouncing off one thing after another - the coffee table - ouch - followed by the the Christmas Tree - oh fuck - as the decorations fall off and roll away. I eventually make it to the bedroom, where I know my husband has a stash of flashlights in preparation for Armageddon. One after another I fumble for the lights, and one after another they refuse to turn on. Has he even heard of batteries ?  I cannot see a bloody thing, so I dare not place any of them down in case they crashed to the floor. Finally I find one with a weak glow and use it to light the rest of my way.  I am not happy.

We wake up the next morning to find we still didn't have power. This was a result of a huge ice storm that had swept through southern Ontario during the night. The temperature in the house wasn't too bad as Rob had got up at 4:00 AM to light a fire. I wasn't actually going to mention that because it has little bearing on the rest of my blog, but Rob was quite insistent. I think he was trying to make up for his slew of useless flashlights. 

We were very lucky. Several neighbours had downed trees and damaged vehicles. Our silver birch with two trunks had bowed until each was touching the ground, and there it has stayed all day. Not broken, bit only time will tell if it will recover. I didn't mind too much about the power until it dawned on me there was no coffee. Then I was pissed. Rob had the brilliant (and for once I mean that sincerely) idea to brew coffee on the BBQ. It actually turned out quite well. My husband, the hero.

Bah Humbug

My husband is far from a "Bah Humbug", in fact he takes great delight in Christmas, and enjoys decorating the house. What he doesn't enjoy however is pulling thirty odd boxes of decorations out of the crawl space. There also happens to be a couple of other things that make him nuts, and therefore provide me with great joy.

The first would be my Santa Cuckoo Clock. I purchased this a few years ago and I love it. I am however the only one in the house that does. Every hour little doors fling open, a mini Santa pops out  and calls with great gusto "Merry Christmas, Ho Ho Ho". This is followed by one of several different - and in some cases slightly off key - Christmas tunes. It is unfortunate if you happen to be standing near it when the hour strikes, because it will scare the bejeebers out of you, and has actually been known to make me curse on a couple of mornings when I was not fully awake and functioning. 

Rob hates it, the kids hate it, even the dog hates it, although he has stopped diving under the kitchen table every time it goes off.  It can be set so that it doesn't chime through the hours of Midnight to 6:00 A.M. The trouble is when I first set it up this year - Rob absolutely refuses - I must have done something wrong. I didn't notice it not going off during the day, but Rob sure as hell noticed going off every hour through the night. He said it woke him up each time, I only have his word for that because I slept blissfully through it. Sucks to be him. 

The second thorn in my husband's side is a purchase I made this year - in the hope that it would have a similar effect as the cuckoo clock and happily I was right. It is a snowman, about six inches high that goes in the refrigerator, every time the door opens it utters - loudly - one of several phrases "It's chilly in here", "Snack time" or something equally as inane. The only other person who likes it is Grady. The rest of the family - my husband and traitorous daughters have ganged up on me and turned their evil intentions on my poor hapless snowman. He has been kidnapped, hidden and sabotaged. I have not been impressed. So much for the spirit of Christmas. Vengeance shall be mine.

Sid Is All Heart

I think it is just possible that my youngest daughter may have inherited my "lack of sympathy gene". Take this morning for example. We have three guinea pigs, one - Becky - was the class pet that Grady inherited, and he adores her. The second - Cruella - we purchased in the summer and the the third - Piggy, her offspring.  Initially we were only going to keep a baby if a girl, so they could all go in one cage. Sadly there was only one live birth, and it was a boy. 

I have to digress here, because you would not believe how you determine the sex of a baby guinea pig. You have to hold it on it's back and um, for want of a better description, massage the genital area. If something "pops out" it is a boy. You can only imagine. This was Rob's job. So there he is pig in hand, rubbing away at the nether regions, nothing is popping out, but the eyes have rolled back in its head, and it has the biggest smile on its face.  Based on that experiment we conclude Piggy is a girl. Just to be sure, a week or so later we take "her" back to Al at the pet store for a second opinion. Turns out Rob was rubbing in the wrong place - don't get me started - and as soon as Al tapped the pig, we realized very quickly Piggy is in fact a boy.   By this time, the whole family adores him, so there is no way he is going back to the pet store, plans have to be made to re-arrange cage occupation, in order to keep him.

Anyway back to my original theme. Sid has given up on the puppy idea, and is now asking for her own guinea pig when she turns twelve. Grady nixes that idea, by telling her - quite rightly - that their father will never allow four guinea pigs, (it was amazing he agreed to three). At which point Sidney turns to Grady and announces "It won't be 4, Becky will be dead by then".  That girl is heartless!  Poor Grady goes off to school, convinced the demise of his guinea pig is now imminent. I'm tempted to tell her Santa got eaten by a polar bear, that would teach her.

Wooden Spoon

More of the same. Sid and Grady got into a fight - can't remember why, and don't really care. The first indication is when I hear Grady hollering, and Sid's smug "Take that!". Oh, so not good.  

Upon inquisition, I discovered that Grady had somehow upset Sid's sensibilities and in retaliation she had "punched him in the nuts". That boy really has to learn how to dodge or duck. So as Grady staggers around, dramatically clutching his nether regions, I read the riot act to Sid, actually going as far as threatening her with a wooden spoon.  She starts to wail, totally disproportionate to the threat level.

She stomps upstairs, lamenting her lot in life, even going so far as to wishing she were dead !  A threat indeed. I yell at her to come back down and it can be arranged. Lo and behold she turns up in front of me. Lindsay is aghast at her stupidity, everyone knows when I assume "THAT" tone, you need to duck and cover, not present a willing target. Sid, however isn't finished. "What are you going to do about it ?" she accuses. Are you kidding me ? 

"Well", I begin "I can make it quick and easy, or slow and painful, what's your preference ?" Sid actually ponders this question, while Lindsay is trying unsuccessfully to choke back laughter. Grady is no where to be seen, he was off nursing his nuts. I really think at that point I could have gotten off with an insanity plea.

No More Snow Days

This is actually from last winter, but with the snowfall we had on the weekend, could easily apply to this week. 

For the record I'd like to state that my family is never, ever having another snow day. I don't care how much mother nature throws at us, a raging blizzard will not be used as an excuse to stay home.  This is Canada for crying out loud, suck it up, buckle on the snow shoes, harness the dog sled and make it to school or die trying. 

It wasn't so bad with Lindsay, she high tailed it to Zach's house as soon as she knew she didn't have to go to school. Sidney and Grady however, a different story. I think I have mentioned before we have a large back yard - 1/2 acre to be exact, do you have any idea how much snow is out there right now ? Grady wants to build a snow fort, a noble ambition, but he decides to construct it on the front lawn (not that you can see any lawn) and at the curb no less. The first run through from the snow plough and you can guess what happened - the fort is buried. I used to have such high hopes for that boy.  But perhaps that was the evil genius's master plan because he seemed awfully eager to get his sister inside the fort right before it caved in. 

You may think that having the children outside playing happily together in the fresh air, dodging snow ploughs would seem like a good idea. Think again, the dryer has been running non stop. It takes the kids 20 minutes to get soaked through, then troop through the house leaving a puddle of melted snow.  Everything is bundled into the dryer and then no sooner is everything dry, they want to go back out again. This cycle has been repeated continuously through out the day.  

By this time the snow fort has been buried no less than five times, and Grady has dutifully dug it back out - five times. He's a little slow on the uptake. When they are indoors, the little darlings have not stopped arguing. I would threaten to throw them head first into a snow bank (something I have been known to carry out in the past) but they are just twisted enough to enjoy it. I desperately need a new arsenal of threats. 

Having Rob home is no picnic either. I do sympathise that he has had to shovel the driveway no less than 3 times in 12 hours, but I would be more sympathetic if I didn't have to hear him whine about it. After all, I'm ready to call 911 if I notice him collapsed motionless in the snow. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. On the subject of whining, the damn dog isn't much better. He charged into the snow first thing this morning, frolicking like a puppy. At that point it was only a few inches deep and he was happy. Now that the snow is up to his shoulders, it's a whole different game of soldiers. He ain't going outside now, no way no how. Not sure how long his bladder is going to hold out, but the snow shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. Rob has even shoveled a path for him outside the back door, but in vain. 

So, no more snow days !







 

My Not So Grown Up Christmas List

My youngest still believes in Santa. Touching, except that it makes the shopping and hiding of gifts so much more difficult. All stocking stuffers for any of the kids have to be stashed at the back of drawers and the tops of closets, to ensure Sid sees none of it, lest she become a non believer.

Now we come to her Christmas list for Santa. The perennial favourite a puppy. You would think after 4 or 5 years of a puppy-less Christmas she would take a hint, but no, Sid is nothing if not tenacious. I suppose 4 cats, 3 guinea pigs, 2 frogs, 4 remaining rabbits, a horse, a dog, myriad fish and a jird in the freezer are not enough for her. Do you have any idea how many of those fucking family stick figures I have on my van ? Enough to obscure the back window, that's how many. I have been known to stop traffic as drivers pause to count the menagerie emblazoned on my vehicle. I digress, no puppy for Sid.

Number two on the list - Lego. Now that at least is something I can manage. Although again, why the thousands of hard pointy little bricks she and her brother already possess are not enough is beyond me. Even one pointy little object is too many when I tread unsuspecting upon it with my bare foot. As the excruciating pain shoots through my nervous system and I let loose a spectacular string of curses, my offspring laugh uncontrollably. It would appear that mummy hopping on one foot and cursing a blue streak never gets old.

Item number three on the list caught my attention. She has requested "Something to make money".  Not sure how that would work exactly, but I'm guessing a printing press is probably out of the question. Maybe Santa could suggest she get a job, but I don't think there is much call for 9 year old Sumo wrestlers. 

Next, she has requested "Bongos". Really ? What possess this girl ? Our house isn't noisy enough, and having Sid bashing away on Bongos isn't going to slash through my last thread of sanity and send me falling into the abyss ? I sense Grady's influence here. Either way, no Bongos for Sid.

We have a few gimmes on the list, books, stuffed animals, DVDs - all within acceptable limits, but then we come to the last item. Sid has requested that Santa bring her "A Rock Star for a friend".  Why not just ask for World Peace ? But a Rock Star ? Really ? How am I supposed to accomplish that ? I tell you that puppy idea is all of a sudden looking a lot more appealing.

The Sad Tale Of The Swear Jar

My children informed me this week they would like to implement a "Swear Jar".  Ha, ha. "No fucking way". I told them. The little sods did that a few summers ago, it just happened to be the week we had friends - James & Meredith - staying with us, and between the five of them they cooked up one dastardly plan after another, guaranteed to make me lose it and start cursing. They were actually quite successful, because it took me a few days of banging my head against the wall before I clued in to what they were doing. Their ultimate goal - apart from making me mental - was to raise enough money from the "Swear Jar" for a trip to "Chuckee Cheese". That experience alone is enough to make anyone lose it.

So, no "Swear Jar" for the kids. Honestly, I can't afford it. Mind you, the rate my little potty mouthed offspring are going, I'd probably get as many donations from them as myself. When I heard last week from a teacher that the definition a student had provided for "Fruitcake" was "A crazy asshole", my very first thought was "OMG, which of my children wrote that?".  Fortunately it was another miscreant and my kids were in the clear - for now.

Push Forward

Today, for something  - actually not so - different, I am handing the post to my friend Kristy. Her Facebook entry  this morning was hilarious, so I asked her to step in and write my blog for today.  I am so happy to have found someone whose life experience is so close to mine. So I hand you over to Kristy.

Hello one and all. My name is Kristy O’Sullivan. I’m a Capricorn, a mother of an eight month old and a neighbour of Kelly’s. That’s the abridged version.  

I’m honoured to be here (at Kelly’s offer) to regale you with one of my recent escapades.

For background’s sake, I met Kelly through her business. She seemed like a very pleasant woman at first blush, and got extra points for being English and (formerly) owning a Jird which I must confess I thought was a typo for over one year. It was only after reading Kelly’s blog for the first time, that I knew it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  You see, for about 30 years my anecdotes have been met with “It could only happen to you Kristy.”  Now I can tell them this is not the case!  I am not alone in dealing with the constant whir of sh*t hitting the fan.Don’t get me wrong, I have good days.  The problems begin when you get smug about it. Or God forbid, in this world of social media, start to brag. Such was the case yesterday when I had the gall to post this as my Facebook status “9 hrs solid sleep and armed with Starbucks coffee. It's a Christmas miracle!!". Friends far and wide gave me the old thumbs up, knowing full well the bottom would fall out and I’d soon provide some great fodder to enjoy during their next coffee break. Top of Form

Today was far from a Christmas miracle. 

It always starts with a crappy sleep. That’s the first sign sh*t is about to go downhill. I spent 8 hours listening to two Pekingese snoring. I’m a light sleeper at the best of times. My snoring husband knows enough to sleep in the other room. The dogs, however, could care less. They recline in their little fancy beds, dreaming and wheezing the most horrible sounds. I have several tactics for dealing with this. I usually begin by snapping my fingers as this requires no props. Sometimes the dogs stir and quiet down for about 30 seconds. If it escalates, I tap  my water glass up and down on the bedside table. This is good for about 2 minutes of silence. The next step is opening and closing the drawer of the bedside table repeatedly, followed only by getting out of bed and yell-whispering SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!!!! With this, they raise their heads, perhaps an eyebrow if they’re feeling particularly obedient and then continue, as they were, a couple of open mouth breathers. Such was the case last night. For a more immersive reader experience, may I suggest rereading this paragraph every 10 minutes and repeating 45 times. 

As is always the case, when I finally began to find a peaceful rhythm in the dogs’ snores and drifted off to sleep at 4am, I was awoken by my baby, Vivian, crying. I hopped out of bed and sprinted downstairs in an effort to make a bottle before she woke her dad up. I noticed one dog had uncharacteristically followed me downstairs and was standing at the back door with his “legs crossed”, figuratively speaking.  I know enough about elderly canines to oblige him. Old Snoopy darted outside and quickly made his way to what we call the 'back 40" of our large lot. I could no longer see him, partly because it was pitch black outside and because I had neglected to put on my glasses, without which I am legally blind. As we have coyotes in the neighbourhood, this situation required me to go outside to supervise. I threw on my parka over my underwear and slipped into the only pair of shoes available, my 6’4’ husband’s size 12 running shoes. I’m glad no one else gets up at this hour as I’m sure I was the picture of holiday glam chasing Snoopy around the yard in this getup in -15c weather, loudly encouraging him to do a nice poo-poo and pee-pee and haul ass inside. 

Dog inside, I ran upstairs with Viv’s bottle into her dark nursery only to slide 10 feet across the floor barefoot. After turning the lights on, I saw a trail of smeared dog poop trailing behind me and looking around, many similar piles all over the room. I calmly removed my screaming baby from her crib and immediately detected a new and different foul smell. Of course, Vivian, realizing it was a free for all, joined the fray and pooped up her back and all over her sleeper. I cleaned the various poos and my disgusting feet using readily available (thank GOD) baby wipes until I could make my way to the bathroom, and then went downstairs to make coffee.

No coffee. 

Argggh. If my child’s first sentence is “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me” I will not be the least bit surprised. I handed Vivian to my now-awake husband, put on pants (as a courtesy and because I’m so elegant) and drove to Starbucks. I have to say it was a nice break. 

Home again, I decided there was really only one way to make my bad day better, to do something good for myself. Or, let’s face it, do something I would rather get over and done with so I could start enjoying my day and eating whatever the hell I  want. Today it was the treadmill. Gym clothes on, baby happily cooing in exersaucer, I stepped onto the treadmill all set for a great run....hit the ON switch... no power. I quickly realized my husband had commandeered the extension cord for his outdoor Christmas lights display. (On a related seasonal note, I know Jesus loves me because I provide hours of entertainment. )

I called my husband who found this funny (really, he & Rob should hang out), and then head outside in unflattering spandex in full view of the neighbours to search the garage for another cord. Successful, I ran upstairs, plugged in the treadmill and began to run. Moments later I realized my husband somehow compromised my treadmill when he moved it to clean the floor last weekend*. And so, as I ran forward, the treadmill slowly inched backwards across room. As I couldn’t figure out how to fix it and refused to give up on the run, this required me to get off between sprints like a participant in some bizarre strongman event, constantly pushing it forward.

And now, the moral of this long-winded story: Keep pushing it forward. 

Well, nice to meet you all. It’s now 9am and time to start my day. Wish me luck.

*Not a complaint, husband should continue to clean floor.

Part II

We have now reached Wednesday, and sadly we have to attend a funeral, but cannot dally because Grady & Lindsay are at home heaving. Sidney was most put out because she was the only one well enough to attend school. Zach somehow manages to convince his parents to let him take the afternoon off school and come over to look after Lindsay. Love is obviously not only blind but a little bit stupid as well. Zach is given fair warning he is entering a "kill zone" but he does it anyway. 

By Wednesday evening Lindsay and Grady are felling better, so Sid decides to throw a spanner in the works and promptly pukes after dinner. Where the hell did that come from ? 

Now we move on to Thursday and Sid is yet again at home. Grady, milking this golden opportunity also decides he is feeling worse again. I am pretty sure he is faking it, but if by chance he progresses like his sister, he could well end up barfing again, so against my better judgement I keep him home as well.  On the plus side I didn't have to get up early to take them to school, and when I told Grady that he could stay home, he thought it was a trick. I love the fact that I can still torture my children with mind games. 

Only an hour or so into the day I receive a text from Rob, it is now his turn to succumb to the malady, and although he is able to make it through the day, he was feeling pretty sorry for himself by the time he got home. He had booked a vacation day for Friday so we could go Christmas shopping, gainfully he tried, but it was my shortest shopping trip ever. 

Moving on to Saturday, everyone is on the mend except for Rob, who has now spent more time in the bathroom than when he was prepping for his colonoscopy. I'm not sure how I have escaped this plague, and spend every waking minute as if it's my last. Zach is over that afternoon, but half way through dinner, his face takes on a pained look, and he confesses he is not well. Half an hour later he is heading home, white-faced, clutching his stomach. I do feel very sorry for the boy, but you can't say we didn't warn him.

So now we are back at Sunday, a week has passed since "Patient Zero" or "Typhoid Sid" as I have taken to calling her. I am surrounded by boxes of Christmas decorations waiting to decorate, and copious amounts of laundry. I am sure I have not succumbed to this plague through sheer will power alone.

Down The Rabbit Hole.

I referred in yesterday's post about my week from hell. You knew it was only a matter of time before it hit the blog.

Technically it started last Sunday when Sid was up bright and early at 5:00 A.M. puking. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't in the middle of the night. Fortunately my husband who has a cast iron stomach is able to handle such crises so much better than I. My first reaction is to feign sleep, but ever since I mentioned I did that in a previous blog, Rob is wise to it. Instead I attempt a half-hearted offer to assist, but Rob informs me he can manage, his concern was if I partook of the cleaning, I'd probably add to the mess. Oh Thank God.  Of course by "manage" he didn't necessarily mean quietly, and so there was much banging of doors, flickering of lights and thundering up and downstairs for buckets and disinfectant. It was quite a while before I could get back to sleep !! 

Obviously Sid is staying home from school on Monday, and now Grady is whinging his stomach is "urpy". That boy's vocab grows by leaps and bounds. I am hesitant to send him to school if there is any chance he might genuinely be sick so I decide to keep them both home. Horror of horrors. Grady spends his "sick" day making Lego movies on his IPod, while she of the two buckets, because apparently one isn't enough, reclines feebly on the upstairs couch. I spend my day with hands scrubbed raw disinfecting every surface of the house. 

Tuesday dawns bright and early and with no sign of puke for 24 hours I ship them off to school before heading out to Peterborough (about an hour journey) to assist a friend hosting her company Christmas function.  You can imagine my surprise when I get a text from Rob that afternoon, he has been summoned to the school to collect Grady because - you've guessed it - he puked in the classroom. By the time I return that evening, Lindsay is also down for the count. We are running short of buckets. 

To be continued ...

And They Called Me The Streak

I thought the title of this blog may capture your attention. Apologies for no posting on Friday, I was experiencing technical difficulties, and by "Technical Difficulties"  I mean last week was the epitome of hell, and I just didn't have time to indulge myself with the blog. 

So here it is a Sunday morning after the said horrendous week, and I am looking forward to a lie-in. It wouldn't be for long as we were expecting Bell to make a service call anywhere between 9:00 AM and Noon.  You can imagine my horror when the phone rings shortly after 7:30. There is a reason the phone is on Rob's side of the bed, and he answered it in a pleasant manner. The caller would have received a "WTF are you thinking calling at this time of morning?" had it been up to me. 

Turns out it's the Bell technician who gleefully announces he will be at the door in 20 minutes.  Are you kidding me, an hour early ? Does the man have a death wish ?  I leap (more stumble actually) from bed and race (crawl painfully) to the shower, muttering threats and cursing Bell under my breath.  

Two minutes (not twenty) Rob throws open the door and announces "The Bell guy is here" and takes off. Marvelous, fucking marvelous. An explanation is probably called for here, We have a small house, a side split and that means the hallway between the bedrooms and bathroom is fully visible from downstairs. No private en-suite bathroom here. So here is my dilemma when I climb out the shower, wrapped in a barely adequate towel I will be forced to deek from the bathroom to my bedroom. The trouble is "deeking" requires agilty, so my trip between said rooms would be less "deeking" and more "streaking". Hell, who am I trying to kid, streaking requires speed, my walk of shame would no doubt be reduced to full blown indecent exposure.

Fortunately my son came to my rescue, as he throws open the bathroom door - I have to start locking that - to add his announcement to his father's. I was at least able to ask him, to grab a nightgown from my bedroom. Still, scantily clad as I was, my preference was not to bump in to the unsuspecting technician, so I stood with my ear pressed against the door, listening for voices, trying to determine his whereabouts.  As I slowly nudge open the door, my son is there for me again. "Run" he hisses at me, "The guy is in the playroom, make a run for it". So with Grady's encouragement I dash - sort of - to the safety of my bedroom. 

I heartily do not recommend this as a way to start your Sunday. Rob informed me afterwards that the tech's parting comment was "I am so glad you guys are early risers!".

A Peaceful Saturday

As I sit here one Saturday morning contemplating if I have any material for a new blog, it is handed to me in the form of Grady. All is quiet the house, Rob is grocery shopping - a chore I am forbidden to do on account of the fact that I destroy his sense of order by not trudging mundanely up and down each aisle, but flit gayly from one part of the store to another, which makes him mental - so there's an upside in everything. 

Anyway, I digress, as I sit quietly, there is a blood curdling scream from the playroom, followed by a second and then a third. Before I can react - I'm awfully slow on weekend mornings - I hear Grady bellow a few choice words - not to be repeated here & thank goodness Rob was out - followed by  "Die! Die! Die!" . This was accompanied by several large bangs. My first thought, "OMG, Sid has pushed him too far and he's done her in". 
 
If that is the case, then there is no sense in racing upstairs now, what's done is done. I yell up to Grady and ask him what the hell is going on. My son answers with several more expletives and then tells me he had a wasp on his foot, which judging by the "Die! Die! Die!" has now met an untimely demise. 


However, Grady is not out of the woods yet, he may have escaped the wasp but he now has to face the wrath of his sister who was woken from a deep slumber by his commotion.
Personally I'd take my chances with an angry wasp over Lindsay any day.

Never Buy Condoms At The Dollar Store

My children continually serve to remind me that they are walking advertisements for the use of birth control. 

On the weekend we joined friends for dinner, at a restaurant no less. Sidney & Grady were invited also, despite my many warnings to the contrary.  Sadly, they were egged on by certain adults who should have known better. While Sid was away from the table, someone squirted a small amount of hot sauce in her water, which Grady persuaded her to drink when she returned. For the record I was down the other end of the table and had no idea what was happening until I heard the loud guffaws of laughter and looked up in time to see Sid with her face turned inside out, and Grady collapsed in a giggling heap. Personally I blame their father, as he had encouraged this debacle.

It would appear they were just getting started, as it was all downhill from there. You can imagine my embarrassment, when as we are preparing to leave - voluntarily, before we were forcibly ejected - I move to finish the last few drops of my wine, only to have my family sit there and chant - loudly - "Chug! Chug! Chug!"  Assholes all of them. There is a good reason we rarely get invited anywhere more than once.

The Cat House

So I spend my Thursday morning cleaning house but not sure why I bother. Everything is spotless, I have even scrubbed the floors, and feeling pretty pleased with my efforts. I notice 2 cats sitting in the basement window, one on the outside wanting in and one on the inside wanting out. I open the window, outside cat darts through. Inside cat is on his way out when the wind blows a leaf in, said cat leaps a foot in the air, falls out the window and sets off a chain reaction. Second cat bolts upstairs to kitchen, careens around the corner and sends bowl of dog cookies hurtling across kitchen floor.

Clean up the dog cookies, while I curse out the cats and my youngest daughter who filled the bowl to the brim to begin with. Our dog, unlike most, only eats when he is hungry, so Sid whose chore is to feed the dog, discovered very quickly that if she fills his bowl to overflowing, it will last him several days, and therefore she only has to feed him twice maybe three times a week. That's my daughter, always looking for the easy way out.

That mess in itself would have been enough, but no, third cat enters the fray and decided to eat dog cookies. He is partial to them, but with an inevitable result, and sure enough half an hour later I hear that ghastly sound of a cat about to upchuck and charge around the house trying to determine the source. I locate the cat mid heave, go to grab him but he dodges. The chase is on. The little bastard only stops long enough to vom, then takes off again with me in hot pursuit. I finally caught up with him, and tossed him unceremoniously outside.  Unfortunately, I was too late, and had to retrace my steps and clean up seven (yes seven) piles of cat barf, swearing the whole time.

It didn't go unnoticed that it was a Thursday !

At Least You Can Blog About It

So, here it is a Friday afternoon. I am hosting an Open House for my business and with 5 minutes to go before people start to arrive, the phone rings. It is my husband who had gone to pick up the kids from school. First thing he said was "Take a deep breath and try not to get cross", well that sort of approach is guaranteed to send me from calm to apoplectic in 2 seconds flat. "What happened?" I asked with a considerable amount of trepidation, fearing the worst. He continues "Your daughter locked the keys in the van".  I don't need to detail my exact reply to this news, but I will just say it was at top volume and contained an awful lot of "F" words. My husband then compounds the issue by offering up sympathy for his daughter, because she was embarrassed. Are you kidding me ? Embarrassment will be the least of her troubles. 

So there he is stuck at the school with all three children. Thinking about it now, that wouldn't have been such a bad evening - for me ! But I am frantically trying to determine if I have time to make it to the school with the spare keys and get back home before the first guests arrive. I think I have mentioned before that I hate driving Rob's car, I don't even like climbing in it, never mind driving it. The dashboard has more dials & lights than a 747, I switch on the wipers when I am trying to signal, I can't see the gears without my glasses and whenever I try to adjust the seat, (my legs are longer than his) I either end up with my nose an inch from the windscreen and the steering wheel in my gut, or so far back I can't reach the pedals. 

Thank goodness we are on a first name basis with most of the teachers, because Rob was able to borrow one of their cars - thank you Shari - and return home to get the keys. Meanwhile Lindsay who has now arrived at Zach's house, started texting me apologies, which I don't see because my idiot husband has taken my phone, and proceeds to text her back that "I'm" not cross,  etc, etc. That man has a death wish.  

It is only when Lindsay arrives home, and starts to apologise in person that I find out the real truth - not only had she locked the keys in the van, but she had left the engine running too. WTF? The loud alarm that goes off when you open the door to indicate the keys are still in the ignition wasn't a clue - to either of them ?  Lindsay, who was obviously no longer feeling contrite about all this, offers up  "At least you can blog about it!".