Seriously ?

Very few people have my cell phone number, my husband, my kids, my boss and the barn manager.  There is a reason for that, I hate using cell phones, and using them to text even less, especially with my teenage daughter. I swear she is on a different astral plane altogether. Take this morning's missives. 

Lindsay:  "Can you pick me up this afternoon please"
Me:   "Yes, what time ? Are you staying late ?".
Lindsay: "Yes, a meeting for Leadership camp"
Me: "What time ? I have an errand to run, I can co-ordinate".
Lindsay: "That's good".  (Not especially helpful).
Me: "What time ?".   (Am I the only one who notices the repetition here ?)
Lindsay:  "Sometime after you pick up Sid".
Me: "I'm not picking up Sid. What time is your meeting over?"
Lindsay: "I'm not sure, the teacher is on a trip. I will know at the end or not"  WTF does that mean ? Know at the end of what ?  
Me: (Taking a very deep breath) "OK, when will you be sure ?"
Lindsay: "I'm sure now"

At this point, we are holding two very different conversations, or she is yanking my chain.  Either way, my patience is at an end. 

Me: "Just (blank) tell me the (blank) time" (I left out a few descriptive words, but you can fill in the blanks)
Lindsay: "At 4. Are you upset?"   (Why would she think that ?)

Hallelujah, twenty minutes and a dozen texts later, I finally get an answer.  This should have been so easy, covered in 10 words or less. "Can you pick me up at 4?" and my reply "Yes". I shudder to think when this generation is in power.  Bring on the end of days.
 

 

Cindersid

     We get up this morning, and Sid complains about the chilly temperature. Not sure why as today is the warmest day to date in this hellish never ending frigid winter we have experienced, but she does. Particularly she grizzles her feet are cold. I suggest she don her slippers, so she skips back upstairs and is gone for some time. Finally when she returns to the kitchen she is wearing one reindeer slipper and one purple sequined slipper (don't ask). As a general rule I do not comment on what they wear, but I couldn't let this one pass, I was far too curious. "Pray tell" I asked, "Why are you wearing odd slippers?"  "They were the only ones I could find" Sid replies.  

       At this point Grady jumps in and tells his sister that he knows where her other slippers are located and races to her bedroom to find them. Sure enough he returns quickly with the missing matching pairs.  I am thrilled, there is hope for the boy yet. Typically my children (and usually their father as well) can't find something without a flashing neon sign, even if said object in the middle of their bedroom doorway for them to stumble over.  As I commended Grady on his excellent powers of observation, he looks at me pointedly and declares, "I hope I would know where they are, after all I'm the one that hid them."

It's A Thursday When ...

Sid comes racing up the basement stairs first thing this morning, yelling at me "I can't feed the dog, there is a mouse in the kibble".  Never one to assume a task when I can delegate to my children, I instruct Grady to take care of it.  He is eager to oblige and races in to grab my kitchen tongs. I stop him dead in his tracks. 

"Where" I bellow "Do you think you are going with those". He gives me a condescending sideways glance "I'm going to catch the mouse of course". Not with my bloody kitchen tongs, he's not.  "You are not using those" I tell him. "Don't be such a wuss, grab it by the tail". After all, thats how I catch them. He looks at me in abject horror. "Seriously ?" he asks.  "Yes" I reply, "Now go do it".

Decidedly more reluctant, he heads downstairs. Sid is following close behind, eager to see how this pans out.  My son is obviously more squeamish than I thought, because he uses the kibble scoop to catch the mouse. As he backs out of the crawl space, clutching the scoop and yelling for me, the inevitable happens. The mouse, sensing freedom takes a flying leap off the scoop and burns rubber to the back of the crawlspace.

I did not have a religious upbringing, although I did teach Sunday School for a while (my husband has a hard time believing that), but I'm pretty damn sure our house is as close to Purgatory as you are ever going to get. 

Sunday Morning Going Down

It is well documented how I feel about my Sunday mornings. My Sundays are the antithesis to my Thursdays. They are to be enjoyed in a calm and and peaceful manner.  A leisurely day spent with coffee, newspaper and a good book. They are not to be plagued - as was today - by early morning phone calls (my father-in-law), more early morning phone calls (Grady's friend Crispy), and chasing the cats and a chipmunk.

If you now re-read the first paragraph, and insert the "F" bomb every 2 or 3 words, you will have a better understanding of how I really feel about my day so far.  

My husband - who normally fields any early morning calls from people who are brave enough to poke the bear, had taken Lindsay to Driving School (the one person in the house having a worse day than me) and then gone on for a ride. The first phone call (my father-in-law who is reading this and laughing) shortly after he left, woke me up and pissed me off. By the  fourth or fifth - all before 10:00 A.M. I was positively apoplectic.

Thoroughly disgruntled, I got up when Rob returned and stumbled downstairs for a coffee. As I sit nursing my nectar of the gods and bemoaning a pounding headache, I glance out the front window and see one of the cats with a chipmunk in his mouth.  Son of a bitch, this was probably the same stupid-arsed chipmunk Rob rescued from the other cat only yesterday. 

Coffee and headache forgotten I jump to my feet, and hobble to the front door. Rob has beaten me to it and by the time I get outside, is bellowing at me that the cat has hopped the fence into the back, and he is in hot pursuit - until he reaches the fence that is, he isn't quite as nimble as the cat. I head to the back door as Sid rushes past me and lays claim to my shoes, so I am forced to hop about in the sodden back garden in bare feet. The cat takes one look at my windmilling arms and wild eyes and does a 180 degree turn back the way he came. Rob by this time has made his way through the house only to do an about face and return to the front door. Did I mention that these antics are accompanied by much hooting and hollering and general pandemonium. Our neighbours love us. 

I have barely made it back into the house when I hear a shout from Rob, the cat is on his way back, but this time over the fence on the other side of the house. By this time I am freely cursing the cat and the stupid f**ing chipmunk that allowed himself to be caught. We finally corner the cat by the rabbit hutch, or at least Sidney and I do, Rob is still on the other side of the fence, helpfully calling out directions. I reach down to grab the chipmunk that is vainly trying to scamper up the glass walls of the rabbit hutch, only to have the dog snatch it out of my hand. This is one hell of an unlucky chipmunk. I scream at the dog and make a grab for his collar. He yelps and the chipmunk breaks free, across the path, over Sid's feet and in to the lilac bush where we lose sight of him.  

And that, was my Sunday morning going down.

My Idiot Children

    This comes under the heading of "my children are arseholes". I love Cadbury's mini eggs and at this time of year I buy them in copious amounts and always have a big pot of them sitting around to munch on. Tonight I came home, and first Grady and then Sidney offered me to get me some of the mini eggs. I declined and didn't think anything of it other than how gracious my children were being. They are usually fighting by this point of day so I take the good times when I can. It was only later when I grabbed a handful of mini eggs on the way through the kitchen and tossed them in my mouth, I realized I had fallen victim to their diabolical plan. WTF ? The little bastards had replaced some of the chocolate  with very realistic looking decorative foam eggs from the dollar store. They thought it was hilarious as I stood in the kitchen, choking and spitting out bits of chocolate and foam. We will see if they are still laughing on Sunday when I fill their Easter baskets with rabbit pooh.

The Silence Of The Lambs

     Last year I had great fun helping my friend Alyssia bottle feed two orphaned lambs. It isn't often one gets an opportunity like that so I was more than happy to step in and help out where I could.  I wasn't surprised to get a text from her a few weeks ago asking me if I would be willing to help out again this year and I was glad to oblige. Her friend wanted a lamb & had asked Alyssia to start the bottle feeding process for her, but she was concerned that one lamb might get lonely, so it wasn't a giant leap to suggest she get two and keep the second, however this posed another problem, once the first lamb went to his eventual home, the second lamb, too small to join the others would then be lonely.  

     What to do? What to do? What to do?. Maybe we should get a lamb too, and I put the suggestion to Alyssia. However, I thought it might be wise to seek my husband's opinion.  "What do you think about getting a lamb honey ? " I asked sweetly. "Don't be ridiculous" was the curt reply "What would we do with a lamb ?". I texted Alyssa with the good news "Rob thinks its a great idea, he's all for it."  So maybe I was stretching the truth just a little bit, but I figured he'd come around - eventually !

       That was all the encouragement Alyssia needed and we started plotting.  I then received another text, her friend wanted two lambs. No problem, let's get four I suggested. Alyssia had already sent me a photo of the 25 orphaned lambs that needed a home and I suggested we visit the farm and take our pick.  By now, Rob is getting a little suspicious of the frantic texts flying back and forth between us, and when I asked him to remove the back seats from my van he was understandably nervous and wanted to know why.  "I need more room for the lambs" I told him.  "WTF what do you mean by lambs, plural?" he squeaked.  I patiently explained that I was merely helping our friend, conveniently leaving out my part in the conspiracy. "Without the back seats we can cram in more lambs" I continued. He visibly paled, he hadn't signed on for this.

       "If you want the back seats taken out" he said, "You can do it yourself, I'm not encouraging this foolishness". If he thought that would dissuade me, he was mistaken. His parting comment was "Don't go doing anything stupid". "Don't worry" I assured him. Fortunately for me, we have very different ideas of what constitutes stupid !

       I got my lamb !  Happy Easter, and I will be back on Monday.

Back In Business

     My apologies for the interlude. It was not my intent to leave my blogging world for so long, but life (in the form of a lengthy bout of flu, orphaned lambs and work) got in the way.  For now, until I have had a chance to catch up, I am cutting back the posts to three times a week - Monday, Wednesday & Friday.  So back to my wacky world of wonderful.

     I grew up as an only child, I have three sisters but I came along much later, so by the time I had turned three they had all left home. My husband on the other hand grew up with two brothers, all close in age, so he is familiar with typical sibling rivalry and fights, I am not.

       I had once imagined a blissful family life, serene and peaceful, instead I get the Rocky Horror Show. Case in point, a typical interaction between my son and youngest daughter. 

       Grady: "Hey Sid, did you know when you look in the dictionary under "idiot" it has your name in the definition?" This is followed by loud peals of laughter, suddenly cut short as Sid aims a stunningly accurate blow to Grady's solar plexus. One day he will learn, but that day is not today.