I'm over at MidCenturyModernMoms today, begging people to explain how to let my teen daughter indulge in Facebook safely. There have been some pretty helpful comments, too; so any of you wondering the same thing (I mean, about your teenager, not mine, of course) should check them out.
And someone from Glencoe, Illinois, has practically been living on my blog the last few days. I don't mind, but would it kill you to comment? I feel used.
I'm late posting because I made the mistake of asking Larry to ignite the pilot lights on our 2 gas fireplaces tonight. Well, I more than asked - I threatened to try to do it myself tomorrow, because his sister is coming to visit in 2 days and I know she will not enjoy sleeping in a 58-degree basement (albeit on a brand-new Ektorp sofabed). Not wanting to come home from work to find our house blown up, Larry tackled the job this evening.
You would think it would be easy, wouldn't you? Like, maybe an on-off switch should do the trick?
No. That would be too simple, and it wouldn't provide divorce lawyers with any clients. Instead each fireplace has a big plastic card covered with complex instructions interspersed with dire warnings of what might happen if one does not follow said instructions precisely. So our evening consisted of such scintillating conversation as, "Are you sure that's safe?" and "Hold the glass up! I said, hold it up!" and "Do you smell gas? I smell gas."
This was not quality relationship time. And the children learned a few new words.
Have I mentioned this is his sister who's visiting?
Showing posts with label marital strife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marital strife. Show all posts
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Knit Me A River
Wow! I should have quizzes more often. I got almost as many comments about the mummified bananas as I had on the bra post. (There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm not going to go for it.)
Yes, the unidentified object was (were?) 2 bananas, looking as though they had been bought sometime in the Pleistocene Era. I can't understand how they reached the petrified stage they were in without their oozing all over my counter first. Usually, it's the oozing that tips me off.
So, thanks to everyone who played! And a special thanks to "A," the first commenter, whose comment made me go over to YouTube looking for a rendition of "Yes, We Have No Bananas." I knew the song existed, but I had never heard it until today. And now I can't get that darn tune out of my head.
As I said, thanks. Thanks a lot.
I managed to attend Knit Night last night; essentially, I walked out the door as Larry walked in from his 3-day management retreat, saying, "Retreat this, buddy!" (Okay, no, I didn't; but I wanted to.) There I was able to discuss with other women a problem that I didn't realize many of us married knitters share: a spouse who thinks that, when he speaks, he should have our full, undivided (i.e., not knitting) attention.
In other words, all those evenings I spent sitting cosily in the den with Larry, knitting away on some project or another and listening to him talk about what is screwed up at work? Didn't count. Because I was knitting. Even though I was conversing with him throughout, asking questions, and only occasionally interrupting the conversation to pick up a dropped stitch or search for a lost needle...
Talk about not being on the same page, huh? Larry doesn't understand that the only way I can listen to him (or anyone else, for that matter) for an extended period of time is by knitting. If my brain isn't focusing on the knitting, it darts around thinking about laundry that isn't done, the kitchen that needs to be cleaned, meat that needs defrosting for the next day, etc. And when it does that, I am really not paying attention.
This misunderstanding stems from the fact that men don't seem able to do two things at once. For instance, when Larry is on the phone, he needs to retreat to a perfectly quiet room and focus on his phone conversation. Isn't that cute? Ya wanna know what I do while I am on the phone?
Going bananas here, can you tell?
(And, yes, I have noted that Audrey Hepburn is most definitely not knitting as she chats and laughs flirtatiously with Humphrey Bogart. But they don't have 6 kids together, either.)
Yes, the unidentified object was (were?) 2 bananas, looking as though they had been bought sometime in the Pleistocene Era. I can't understand how they reached the petrified stage they were in without their oozing all over my counter first. Usually, it's the oozing that tips me off.
So, thanks to everyone who played! And a special thanks to "A," the first commenter, whose comment made me go over to YouTube looking for a rendition of "Yes, We Have No Bananas." I knew the song existed, but I had never heard it until today. And now I can't get that darn tune out of my head.
As I said, thanks. Thanks a lot.
I managed to attend Knit Night last night; essentially, I walked out the door as Larry walked in from his 3-day management retreat, saying, "Retreat this, buddy!" (Okay, no, I didn't; but I wanted to.) There I was able to discuss with other women a problem that I didn't realize many of us married knitters share: a spouse who thinks that, when he speaks, he should have our full, undivided (i.e., not knitting) attention.
In other words, all those evenings I spent sitting cosily in the den with Larry, knitting away on some project or another and listening to him talk about what is screwed up at work? Didn't count. Because I was knitting. Even though I was conversing with him throughout, asking questions, and only occasionally interrupting the conversation to pick up a dropped stitch or search for a lost needle...
Talk about not being on the same page, huh? Larry doesn't understand that the only way I can listen to him (or anyone else, for that matter) for an extended period of time is by knitting. If my brain isn't focusing on the knitting, it darts around thinking about laundry that isn't done, the kitchen that needs to be cleaned, meat that needs defrosting for the next day, etc. And when it does that, I am really not paying attention.
This misunderstanding stems from the fact that men don't seem able to do two things at once. For instance, when Larry is on the phone, he needs to retreat to a perfectly quiet room and focus on his phone conversation. Isn't that cute? Ya wanna know what I do while I am on the phone?
- Cook
- Clean
- Wipe butts (not mine, though)
- Settle fights
- Change diapers
- Answer e-mail
- Knit (but, of course)
- Fold laundry
- Correct math homework
- Yell at kids
Going bananas here, can you tell?
(And, yes, I have noted that Audrey Hepburn is most definitely not knitting as she chats and laughs flirtatiously with Humphrey Bogart. But they don't have 6 kids together, either.)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Name That Post ('Cause I Can't)
Today Rachel turned 6 and, to celebrate, she had her first real birthday party. A real party, meaning people other than family were invited. I ran around the house all morning, cleaning up and ordering the kids to do the same. My bedroom looks like a storage closet because I grabbed all the clutter on the main floor and shoved it up there before the festivities commenced.
It ain't pretty, but it works. Heloise, I'm not.
While Rachel was opening her presents, I commented to my neighbor that it was such a funny coincidence that everyone gave Rachel Hello Kitty stuff and here we had Hello Kitty napkins, plates, etc., for the party. Whereupon my neighbor pointed out that the Hello Kitty invitations that we sent out last week may have just possibly tipped everyone off.
Oh, yeah...I forgot about that.
Anna decorated the cake (and I am so very grateful) and helped Rachel stuff the loot bags. She also hid the loot bags for for the treasure hunt. And she painted Rachel's nails with the Hello Kitty nail polish she bought Rachel for her birthday. For a while there, it felt just like the good old days living with the not-adolescent Anna; that is, until I had the temerity to ask her a simple question, and she looked at me as if I had just passed gas in her face. Oh, well...
I have a dental appointment tomorrow morning. This would be the appointment that is replacing the one I totally blew off a couple of weeks ago. So now I am worried that the dentist may still be angry. And he has all those sharp, pointy instruments lined up, waiting for me...
So I would like to go to bed early this evening, but I know better. I tried to do that last night, but I swear that Larry waits until I get up there to start snoring. Actually, he waits until I have just fallen asleep to start snoring.
So I hit him.
And then he has the nerve to act like he doesn't even know what's going on. Let me tell you, I don't believe him for a minute. This is just his passive-aggressive way of getting back at me for making him get rid of his ugly chair last December.
Marriage can be complicated like that.
It ain't pretty, but it works. Heloise, I'm not.
While Rachel was opening her presents, I commented to my neighbor that it was such a funny coincidence that everyone gave Rachel Hello Kitty stuff and here we had Hello Kitty napkins, plates, etc., for the party. Whereupon my neighbor pointed out that the Hello Kitty invitations that we sent out last week may have just possibly tipped everyone off.
Oh, yeah...I forgot about that.
Anna decorated the cake (and I am so very grateful) and helped Rachel stuff the loot bags. She also hid the loot bags for for the treasure hunt. And she painted Rachel's nails with the Hello Kitty nail polish she bought Rachel for her birthday. For a while there, it felt just like the good old days living with the not-adolescent Anna; that is, until I had the temerity to ask her a simple question, and she looked at me as if I had just passed gas in her face. Oh, well...
I have a dental appointment tomorrow morning. This would be the appointment that is replacing the one I totally blew off a couple of weeks ago. So now I am worried that the dentist may still be angry. And he has all those sharp, pointy instruments lined up, waiting for me...
So I would like to go to bed early this evening, but I know better. I tried to do that last night, but I swear that Larry waits until I get up there to start snoring. Actually, he waits until I have just fallen asleep to start snoring.
So I hit him.
And then he has the nerve to act like he doesn't even know what's going on. Let me tell you, I don't believe him for a minute. This is just his passive-aggressive way of getting back at me for making him get rid of his ugly chair last December.
Marriage can be complicated like that.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Think Up Your Own Damn Title
This was supposed to be Saturday's post, but Larry hogged the computer all day yesterday trying to straighten out our finances. You see, I threw a teeny-tiny hissy fit in the morning and told him I wanted to leave town for more than 3 days and that I wasn't going to spend a week in a tent. And I didn't care if I already spent our vacation money on someone else's bumper, I need to escape in August just like everyone else does around here, dammit.
So, he picked up on my subtle intimations of discontent (probably at the point when I threatened to dissolve the kids' college funds) and spent the day combing through our finances looking for some "extra" money. While he was at it, he attempted to deal with the confusion of our main credit card being farmed out to some new company that we didn't want; but that involved switching all our automatic payments over to a different credit card, and that meant trying to remember approximately 16 gazillion different passwords and PINs in order to access all the different accounts.
I hate seeing a grown man cry like that.
So I decided to deal with a minor knitting crisis while I waited my turn at the computer. You see, Anna's flute camp had a performance Friday evening; and knitting is the only thing that keeps me from acting up like a 3-year-old at these things, as it is all I can do to sit still through any sort of performance (much less a high school one) without sedation. But as I settled in my seat in the auditorium and pulled out the sock I was planning to work on, I realized that 1 of the 4 double-pointed needles I needed was missing.
Folks, I felt as if I had just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. There I was, with nothing to do for 3 solid hours. I whiled away an hour of it retracing my steps and searching for my missing needle (size 0, bamboo - have you seen it?). That was fun, if unsuccessful. Then I spent the 2nd hour repeatedly taking Susie (who was behaving way better than I was) down to the water fountain and back up to our seats (that's what you get for feeding the kids high-sodium-content fast food before the performance). The 3rd hour, I slumped in my seat and mourned all that lost knitting time.
So today I had to rummage through all my knitting bags (and they are legion) to locate the 5th matching needle. As any knitter knows, this sort of exercise is rife with regrets and self-condemnation, as it requires facing up to innumerable unfinished projects and a level of disorganization that makes the inside of my refrigerator look good. I unearthed things I didn't even know I had: 2 baby hats that I finished for Afghans for Afghans and then forgot to send; a vest I knitted for Rachel and never completed the neck edging on; a pair of socks that only need the ends woven in; a top-down hat that I started last October; and a bunch of yarn that I was supposed to have made into a mistake-rib scarf months ago. There were also assorted needles of indeterminate sizes, many tape measures, crumpled printouts of patterns, an old bag of cough drops, a comb, and a petrified french fry.
So I did what any self-respecting knitter would do. I gave up and started a new project. I sat upstairs and knitted Susie to sleep, as it were; and when I came down, I found Larry sitting disconsolately in his chair, surrounded - nay, engulfed - by a year's worth of paperwork. "Everything's a mess," he said. "I'm a slob. I can't find anything."
What can I say? We're a match made in heaven.
Oh, and in case any of you thought I was exaggerating the dismal outlook for women in their forties the other day, think again. For those of you who are click-averse, that link is to an msnbc article that is titled
Men End Up Happier Than Women Later In Life
Just remember, you heard it here first. The article mentions that age 48 is when "men's overall happiness exceeds women's overall happiness." Now, that makes perfect sense to me. That's just the point in life when many men dump their menopausal ball-and-chains to take off with some strumpet half their age. Is it any wonder the guys' happiness exceeds ours at that point?
Of course, I'm not too worried about that happening to me, what with the deal Larry and I have worked out.
So, he picked up on my subtle intimations of discontent (probably at the point when I threatened to dissolve the kids' college funds) and spent the day combing through our finances looking for some "extra" money. While he was at it, he attempted to deal with the confusion of our main credit card being farmed out to some new company that we didn't want; but that involved switching all our automatic payments over to a different credit card, and that meant trying to remember approximately 16 gazillion different passwords and PINs in order to access all the different accounts.
I hate seeing a grown man cry like that.
So I decided to deal with a minor knitting crisis while I waited my turn at the computer. You see, Anna's flute camp had a performance Friday evening; and knitting is the only thing that keeps me from acting up like a 3-year-old at these things, as it is all I can do to sit still through any sort of performance (much less a high school one) without sedation. But as I settled in my seat in the auditorium and pulled out the sock I was planning to work on, I realized that 1 of the 4 double-pointed needles I needed was missing.
Folks, I felt as if I had just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. There I was, with nothing to do for 3 solid hours. I whiled away an hour of it retracing my steps and searching for my missing needle (size 0, bamboo - have you seen it?). That was fun, if unsuccessful. Then I spent the 2nd hour repeatedly taking Susie (who was behaving way better than I was) down to the water fountain and back up to our seats (that's what you get for feeding the kids high-sodium-content fast food before the performance). The 3rd hour, I slumped in my seat and mourned all that lost knitting time.
So today I had to rummage through all my knitting bags (and they are legion) to locate the 5th matching needle. As any knitter knows, this sort of exercise is rife with regrets and self-condemnation, as it requires facing up to innumerable unfinished projects and a level of disorganization that makes the inside of my refrigerator look good. I unearthed things I didn't even know I had: 2 baby hats that I finished for Afghans for Afghans and then forgot to send; a vest I knitted for Rachel and never completed the neck edging on; a pair of socks that only need the ends woven in; a top-down hat that I started last October; and a bunch of yarn that I was supposed to have made into a mistake-rib scarf months ago. There were also assorted needles of indeterminate sizes, many tape measures, crumpled printouts of patterns, an old bag of cough drops, a comb, and a petrified french fry.
So I did what any self-respecting knitter would do. I gave up and started a new project. I sat upstairs and knitted Susie to sleep, as it were; and when I came down, I found Larry sitting disconsolately in his chair, surrounded - nay, engulfed - by a year's worth of paperwork. "Everything's a mess," he said. "I'm a slob. I can't find anything."
What can I say? We're a match made in heaven.
Oh, and in case any of you thought I was exaggerating the dismal outlook for women in their forties the other day, think again. For those of you who are click-averse, that link is to an msnbc article that is titled
Men End Up Happier Than Women Later In Life
Of course, I'm not too worried about that happening to me, what with the deal Larry and I have worked out.
Monday, July 07, 2008
'Til Death Do Us Part
I found the following assertion (well, warning, really) in this column, which interviewed a priest on marriage advice.
People are the same after marriage as before, only more so.
Pretty astute for someone who has never been married, no? He meant it in the sense that you can't change someone by marrying them (i.e., someone who drinks too much before marriage will drink too much after marriage too). But it occurs to me that this statement is also true in the sense that whatever attracts you to a person in the first place, has the potential to drive you crazy after a while. The boyfriend who is so steady and dependable? Becomes boring. The guy with the great sense of humor? Turns out he can never be serious. One of the things that attracted me to Larry was that he was so nice to everyone he met. Now it often irritates me that he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. Dammit, can't he be just a little critical?
I'm sure this works the same way for guys, too. The bubbly girlfriend who could hold up her end of the conversation and always had something fun to say? Turns into the wife who just doesn't shut up. The independent, take-charge career woman? Changes to a control freak - can't she ever let her husband make the plans instead?
You know, people mention the 50 percent divorce rate and shake their heads in dismay; but, to my mind, it's amazing that half of all marriages succeed.
Have no fear, though; Larry's and mine will be one of the successful ones. I'm pretty sure that - no matter how much we might irritate one another at times (um, hypothetically speaking, of course), and regardless of what rough spots we might have to navigate in the course of lifelong matrimony - neither of us will be anxious to just bail out. For we have a deal, you see: should one of us decide that the marriage is over? He/she will receive full, unhampered custody of all six kids.
Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "Quitters never win," doesn't it?
People are the same after marriage as before, only more so.
Pretty astute for someone who has never been married, no? He meant it in the sense that you can't change someone by marrying them (i.e., someone who drinks too much before marriage will drink too much after marriage too). But it occurs to me that this statement is also true in the sense that whatever attracts you to a person in the first place, has the potential to drive you crazy after a while. The boyfriend who is so steady and dependable? Becomes boring. The guy with the great sense of humor? Turns out he can never be serious. One of the things that attracted me to Larry was that he was so nice to everyone he met. Now it often irritates me that he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. Dammit, can't he be just a little critical?
I'm sure this works the same way for guys, too. The bubbly girlfriend who could hold up her end of the conversation and always had something fun to say? Turns into the wife who just doesn't shut up. The independent, take-charge career woman? Changes to a control freak - can't she ever let her husband make the plans instead?
You know, people mention the 50 percent divorce rate and shake their heads in dismay; but, to my mind, it's amazing that half of all marriages succeed.
Have no fear, though; Larry's and mine will be one of the successful ones. I'm pretty sure that - no matter how much we might irritate one another at times (um, hypothetically speaking, of course), and regardless of what rough spots we might have to navigate in the course of lifelong matrimony - neither of us will be anxious to just bail out. For we have a deal, you see: should one of us decide that the marriage is over? He/she will receive full, unhampered custody of all six kids.
Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "Quitters never win," doesn't it?
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Hot!
I'm posting a discussion question about teens and dress over at MidCenturyModernMoms today. Anyone with anything useful to say on the subject is urged to comment over there. Not that this topic is a thorn in my side, or anything...
Okay, this is my favorite editorial cartoon of the week. It sums up Hillary's non-concession speech better than I ever could. I haven't gotten to listen to the real concession speech yet. But I know how it ends.
It's in the 90's here for the next few days, with humidity over 90% and frequent dangerous thunderstorms threatening life and limb. We all know what that means, don't we? It means it is time for Larry to undertake extremely exhausting outdoor work, work that should not be attempted in this type of weather by mere middle-aged mortals, susceptible as we are to heatstroke and back injury.
So Larry is digging up our 400 square-foot backyard in order to construct a flagstone patio complete with cobblestone edging. That translates into 9 tons of stone dust and 1 ton of cobblestones. All needing to be trucked in by wheelbarrow from the parking lot out front.
At least I won't be tempted to tease him about his lack of a regular exercise routine for a while.
Of course, right after Larry began excavating, we were inundated by weather wet enough to make me consider googling "blueprints ark". The precipitation turned our half-dug yard into a muddy swimming pool which is apparently irresistible to various children belonging to me and to my neighbor. She wasn't too happy the day she had to wade into our mud pit to drag her 5-year-old twin boys out by their arms. I expect to see a For Sale sign in front of their house any day now.
You know, it just occurred to me that no one seems to last very long next door to us.
In an attempt to escape the heat and humidity (and the angry neighbors whose property values we are doing our best to destroy), I took my best friend to the mall yesterday to help her pick out maternity clothes. (We brought our teen daughters with us, for which favor they owe us undying love and adulation.) They wandered around while my friend and I spent an inordinate amount of time in Motherhood, attempting to find maternity clothing suitable for a woman who is not under 25 and stick-figure thin.
Is there any way to let clothing manufacturers know that there are expectant mothers who would like to have shirts that do not accentuate the rolls of fat down our sides? Is that too much to ask? This horrible trend of looking sexy and svelte during pregnancy started when I was pregnant with Susie over 3 years ago, and it shows no signs of abating. I remember weeping because I couldn't find a simple pair of elastic waist shorts with a belly panel (at that point, the maternity fashionistas had decided that I would be more comfortable in shorts that did not cover my belly at all) and an attractive, flowing shirt that would cover up (rather than show off) my middle-aged pregnant body.
So. We finally staggered out of there with 3 acceptable outfits (I do love spending other people's money), a bathing suit (another note to manufacturers: pregnant women need support in the bust area, fellas), and a couple of nursing bras (one more thing? If a woman is wearing a D or larger cup, anything less than 3 rows of hooks in the back of her bra is just a joke. Got that?). I had walked in there a teeny bit jealous of my pregnant friend; I left thanking my lucky stars that I didn't have to go through the humiliation of trying on every single piece of clothing in the store to find something that looked appropriate.
Since the clothing ordeal wasn't enough for me, I came home and decided it was a great day (hot! sunny! weekend!) for the kids and I to take a 5-gallon cooler of lemonade to our local bike trail and charge 50 cents a cup for some refreshment. Did I mention it was hot? And sunny? So hot and sunny, in fact, that there was hardly any business. The kids whiled away the time drinking up their potential profit, while I tried to knit on a sock (bamboo needles and humidity don't mix well) and worried about how many cups of lemonade Susie could hold before she would need the potty. I'm surprised one of the few people biking by didn't call the police and accuse me of child endangerment. It was that hot.
But the kids stuck it out, because they are too young and innocent to realize when their mother is being abusive. And they netted about 17 dollars, which made them feel like Rockefellers. So I guess risking death-by-broiling was worth it.
Have I mentioned it's hot?
Okay, this is my favorite editorial cartoon of the week. It sums up Hillary's non-concession speech better than I ever could. I haven't gotten to listen to the real concession speech yet. But I know how it ends.
It's in the 90's here for the next few days, with humidity over 90% and frequent dangerous thunderstorms threatening life and limb. We all know what that means, don't we? It means it is time for Larry to undertake extremely exhausting outdoor work, work that should not be attempted in this type of weather by mere middle-aged mortals, susceptible as we are to heatstroke and back injury.
So Larry is digging up our 400 square-foot backyard in order to construct a flagstone patio complete with cobblestone edging. That translates into 9 tons of stone dust and 1 ton of cobblestones. All needing to be trucked in by wheelbarrow from the parking lot out front.
At least I won't be tempted to tease him about his lack of a regular exercise routine for a while.
Of course, right after Larry began excavating, we were inundated by weather wet enough to make me consider googling "blueprints ark". The precipitation turned our half-dug yard into a muddy swimming pool which is apparently irresistible to various children belonging to me and to my neighbor. She wasn't too happy the day she had to wade into our mud pit to drag her 5-year-old twin boys out by their arms. I expect to see a For Sale sign in front of their house any day now.
You know, it just occurred to me that no one seems to last very long next door to us.
In an attempt to escape the heat and humidity (and the angry neighbors whose property values we are doing our best to destroy), I took my best friend to the mall yesterday to help her pick out maternity clothes. (We brought our teen daughters with us, for which favor they owe us undying love and adulation.) They wandered around while my friend and I spent an inordinate amount of time in Motherhood, attempting to find maternity clothing suitable for a woman who is not under 25 and stick-figure thin.
Is there any way to let clothing manufacturers know that there are expectant mothers who would like to have shirts that do not accentuate the rolls of fat down our sides? Is that too much to ask? This horrible trend of looking sexy and svelte during pregnancy started when I was pregnant with Susie over 3 years ago, and it shows no signs of abating. I remember weeping because I couldn't find a simple pair of elastic waist shorts with a belly panel (at that point, the maternity fashionistas had decided that I would be more comfortable in shorts that did not cover my belly at all) and an attractive, flowing shirt that would cover up (rather than show off) my middle-aged pregnant body.
So. We finally staggered out of there with 3 acceptable outfits (I do love spending other people's money), a bathing suit (another note to manufacturers: pregnant women need support in the bust area, fellas), and a couple of nursing bras (one more thing? If a woman is wearing a D or larger cup, anything less than 3 rows of hooks in the back of her bra is just a joke. Got that?). I had walked in there a teeny bit jealous of my pregnant friend; I left thanking my lucky stars that I didn't have to go through the humiliation of trying on every single piece of clothing in the store to find something that looked appropriate.
Since the clothing ordeal wasn't enough for me, I came home and decided it was a great day (hot! sunny! weekend!) for the kids and I to take a 5-gallon cooler of lemonade to our local bike trail and charge 50 cents a cup for some refreshment. Did I mention it was hot? And sunny? So hot and sunny, in fact, that there was hardly any business. The kids whiled away the time drinking up their potential profit, while I tried to knit on a sock (bamboo needles and humidity don't mix well) and worried about how many cups of lemonade Susie could hold before she would need the potty. I'm surprised one of the few people biking by didn't call the police and accuse me of child endangerment. It was that hot.
But the kids stuck it out, because they are too young and innocent to realize when their mother is being abusive. And they netted about 17 dollars, which made them feel like Rockefellers. So I guess risking death-by-broiling was worth it.
Have I mentioned it's hot?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Friends Don't Let Friends E-Mail Drunk
A friend of mine had the privilege of receiving this e-mail this evening from me, because it was that kind of day:
I'm sorry, first I meant to e-mail you and then to call you, and here it is almost 9 and I feel too stupid to talk to anyone because I fell asleep with the one who really isn't a baby anymore but we're gonna keep calling her that until she is 30, and I just woke up and my brain is fried but it is too early to go back to bed. Now Larry is trying to talk to me about something intelligent and I swear I'm going to lose it, because I know it's something complicated and I don't want to think about anything complicated right now.
Where was I? Oh, yes, sorry. My whole life is like that first paragraph right now and I have no idea why, as we don't even have a baby anymore and I'm not pregnant; but Lord knows, I am drowning in a sea of crap and no one listens to me anymore and what is the point anyway?
I keep getting off track, don't I?
So, getting together next Saturday! Is it too late? I guess I hesitated to commit because your plans would cost us real money and what if someone threw up the night before and I had to stay home and wash 16,000 sets of bed linens, because that is what I always have to do whenever anyone throws up around here, which is way too often, and do you even remember throwing up more than once or twice in your entire childhood? I don't. So why is it like a flippin' hobby with my kids, huh?
Now Larry is mad at me because I just said that I don't care what he is talking about and I don't want to build our long-awaited summer vacation around his niece's wedding in Portland, Maine, which she had the gall to schedule on Labor Day weekend, because doesn't that make it really easy to travel up and down the East Coast? Us and every single other human being who owns a car east of the Mississippi?
So, I was going to say I'll just skip the whole thing, but the more I type, the more I realize that I really need to get out of the house, and screw the fact that Larry needs to spend that Saturday making our backyard into even more of a pit than it actually is, when I know he won't even bother moving the woodpile away from the side of the house, even though it is filled with ants (and termites, too, probably), which are infiltrating our house in record numbers...
Anyway, is this invite still open? If not, I certainly understand. Or maybe we can just meet at IKEA instead, where I need to pick up sheets, because, even though we have a zillion pieces of bed linens, no one ever has both a top sheet and a bottom sheet at the same time to make their beds with. I know other places sell sheets, but IKEA has the cheapest ones, and it's a good excuse to go buy some more frozen meatballs, since that is absolutely the only thing I cook that makes them all happy (except the vegetarian of course). Frozen meatballs, heated up in the oven and covered with sauce from a can, are apparently the nectar and ambrosia of the gods...I don't know why I ever even try to cook anything else.
So, IKEA, Saturday, you and me...right? Don't bring your kids, or I'll pretend not to know you. Thanks.
Ever have a day like that?
I'm sorry, first I meant to e-mail you and then to call you, and here it is almost 9 and I feel too stupid to talk to anyone because I fell asleep with the one who really isn't a baby anymore but we're gonna keep calling her that until she is 30, and I just woke up and my brain is fried but it is too early to go back to bed. Now Larry is trying to talk to me about something intelligent and I swear I'm going to lose it, because I know it's something complicated and I don't want to think about anything complicated right now.
Where was I? Oh, yes, sorry. My whole life is like that first paragraph right now and I have no idea why, as we don't even have a baby anymore and I'm not pregnant; but Lord knows, I am drowning in a sea of crap and no one listens to me anymore and what is the point anyway?
I keep getting off track, don't I?
So, getting together next Saturday! Is it too late? I guess I hesitated to commit because your plans would cost us real money and what if someone threw up the night before and I had to stay home and wash 16,000 sets of bed linens, because that is what I always have to do whenever anyone throws up around here, which is way too often, and do you even remember throwing up more than once or twice in your entire childhood? I don't. So why is it like a flippin' hobby with my kids, huh?
Now Larry is mad at me because I just said that I don't care what he is talking about and I don't want to build our long-awaited summer vacation around his niece's wedding in Portland, Maine, which she had the gall to schedule on Labor Day weekend, because doesn't that make it really easy to travel up and down the East Coast? Us and every single other human being who owns a car east of the Mississippi?
So, I was going to say I'll just skip the whole thing, but the more I type, the more I realize that I really need to get out of the house, and screw the fact that Larry needs to spend that Saturday making our backyard into even more of a pit than it actually is, when I know he won't even bother moving the woodpile away from the side of the house, even though it is filled with ants (and termites, too, probably), which are infiltrating our house in record numbers...
Anyway, is this invite still open? If not, I certainly understand. Or maybe we can just meet at IKEA instead, where I need to pick up sheets, because, even though we have a zillion pieces of bed linens, no one ever has both a top sheet and a bottom sheet at the same time to make their beds with. I know other places sell sheets, but IKEA has the cheapest ones, and it's a good excuse to go buy some more frozen meatballs, since that is absolutely the only thing I cook that makes them all happy (except the vegetarian of course). Frozen meatballs, heated up in the oven and covered with sauce from a can, are apparently the nectar and ambrosia of the gods...I don't know why I ever even try to cook anything else.
So, IKEA, Saturday, you and me...right? Don't bring your kids, or I'll pretend not to know you. Thanks.
Ever have a day like that?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Love And Marriage
The plumber came to visit today; it almost felt like old times. Larry was thrilled when he pointed out that in order to fix the problem with our tub drain, he would have to cut a large hole in the freshly painted living room ceiling. Nothing like paying someone to trash your house...
Larry went jogging today. He exercises on all federal holidays, whether he needs it or not. That's a joke. I thought it was funny. Larry didn't. I told him he could make fun of my Weight Watchers recidivism, just to get even; but he was still mad. So I got mad that he was mad. Things went downhill from there.
Some days, "until death do us part" seems like a really long time.
And would you believe, he still wanted to hang up pictures together today? Is he trying to finish us off, or what? Why doesn't he just call the divorce lawyer and be done with it? I ignored him, so he hung up all that crap where he felt like it. And tomorrow, when he goes to work, I may just take the ugly things down. Because immaturity is my middle name.
Oh, the homeschoolers among you may want to read my essay Winter Doldrums, which appeared in the current issue of Home Education Magazine. Or maybe not.
Larry went jogging today. He exercises on all federal holidays, whether he needs it or not. That's a joke. I thought it was funny. Larry didn't. I told him he could make fun of my Weight Watchers recidivism, just to get even; but he was still mad. So I got mad that he was mad. Things went downhill from there.
Some days, "until death do us part" seems like a really long time.
And would you believe, he still wanted to hang up pictures together today? Is he trying to finish us off, or what? Why doesn't he just call the divorce lawyer and be done with it? I ignored him, so he hung up all that crap where he felt like it. And tomorrow, when he goes to work, I may just take the ugly things down. Because immaturity is my middle name.
Oh, the homeschoolers among you may want to read my essay Winter Doldrums, which appeared in the current issue of Home Education Magazine. Or maybe not.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Do Not Ask For Whom the Ball Drops
I would like to hear a round of applause for my husband, who has indeed finished painting the main living area of our house in time for our party on New Year's Day. As predicted, we are hanging up those curtains with the paint barely dry; but they will be up! And Larry has piled on even more marriage points. He's winning, folks!
After Larry put away all the painting paraphernalia (sp?), we spent some not-so-quality time hanging up all the pictures that have been lying around since we moved. I do not recommend this stressful exercise in togetherness unless either your marriage is solid as a rock or you and your spouse are both far too broke to even consider splitting up. By the time we were finished, Larry was drinking and I had to go to a neighbor's house to calm down.
This evening we went to our first ever New Year's Eve party. The whole family was invited, so we figured, hey, why not? That way Larry and I could spend the afternoon fighting over interior decorating instead of cooking dinner. We had to leave the party by 9:30, before any kids started crying; but unfortunately after some poor unfortunate asked us, "Do you both work?" and I immediately replied, "Yes - I work my butt off at home, and Larry works to bring in the money." You know that phrase shocked silence? I experienced it tonight. It's quite loud.
So, perhaps my response was a tad too snarky. After all, the question may actually have been a sort of compliment - maybe I looked professional, all dressed up as I was. Usually people don't even ask; they assume I'm a stay-at-home frump. I ran my theory by Larry, but he was pretending not to know me at that point. You'd think I'd embarrassed him or something. But that's okay - he embarrasses me all the time. I was just getting even.
Well, time to turn in so that I can get up bright and bushy-tailed - I need energy to yell at the kids all morning while I get ready for our party. Larry is a bit miffed that we have absolutely no idea how many people are showing up (a little, um, mistake on my part); so we need to prepare for the worst-case scenario. And I have to find the New Year's paper party goods I bought on sale in January 2006. They're around here somewhere.
After Larry put away all the painting paraphernalia (sp?), we spent some not-so-quality time hanging up all the pictures that have been lying around since we moved. I do not recommend this stressful exercise in togetherness unless either your marriage is solid as a rock or you and your spouse are both far too broke to even consider splitting up. By the time we were finished, Larry was drinking and I had to go to a neighbor's house to calm down.
This evening we went to our first ever New Year's Eve party. The whole family was invited, so we figured, hey, why not? That way Larry and I could spend the afternoon fighting over interior decorating instead of cooking dinner. We had to leave the party by 9:30, before any kids started crying; but unfortunately after some poor unfortunate asked us, "Do you both work?" and I immediately replied, "Yes - I work my butt off at home, and Larry works to bring in the money." You know that phrase shocked silence? I experienced it tonight. It's quite loud.
So, perhaps my response was a tad too snarky. After all, the question may actually have been a sort of compliment - maybe I looked professional, all dressed up as I was. Usually people don't even ask; they assume I'm a stay-at-home frump. I ran my theory by Larry, but he was pretending not to know me at that point. You'd think I'd embarrassed him or something. But that's okay - he embarrasses me all the time. I was just getting even.
Well, time to turn in so that I can get up bright and bushy-tailed - I need energy to yell at the kids all morning while I get ready for our party. Larry is a bit miffed that we have absolutely no idea how many people are showing up (a little, um, mistake on my part); so we need to prepare for the worst-case scenario. And I have to find the New Year's paper party goods I bought on sale in January 2006. They're around here somewhere.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Status Report Updates
News Flash: Larry returned the chair to IKEA this evening. I convinced him that he deserves a better recliner than the one we foolishly brought home. Those of you readers who are hitched know that this whole episode has cost me an untold number of marriage points. Fun note: the woman at the returns desk wanted to charge him 20 percent because the item wasn't in the packaging. He pointed out that the receipt says only to return item with original packaging and then dumped a pile of mangled cardboard and plastic wrap on her desk. A supervisor got involved. Larry won. Life is sweet.
Mice Caught: Zero. And they're well-fed.
Health Report: Poor. I was up with my own croup in the middle of the night. Now I am coughing like a TB patient. In fact, Larry may be bargaining on my imminent demise and simply hiding the chair in the back of his car until such time as he can bring it back in here unimpeded.
Friendships: Shaky. One friend tried to steal my daughter's babysitting services for tomorrow night, the night that Larry and I have been invited out to our first grown-up party in years. And don't tell me she doesn't mean anything sneaky, because she knows she's invited to the same party as us. Another friend is mad that I won't speak to her on the phone due to my painfully swollen vocal cords (although I can do a great Lauren Bacall imitation right now). Apparently, she has something really interesting to share; nevertheless, she refuses to e-mail me. She's retro that way.
On the up side, a third friend gave me some Christmas fudge today. It was delicious. That's right, it's all gone. Considering that I have to return to Weight Watcher's in less than 2 weeks, there's no point in saving it, now is there?
Rachel Mischief Status: Moderate. Larry took the younger 4 kids to a small aviation museum yesterday, where there was some sort of flight simulator that they could try. Rachel was the only one who managed to "fly" the plane, beating out both her older brothers and her father. We are once again making sure to hide our car keys.
Guest Readiness: Near zero. Nothing that a coat of paint in the living room, curtains (same room), a nice piece of art over the couch, and some glassware that actually matches couldn't solve, though. Larry has his work cut out for him. Imagine - if he were single, he'd be idling away his weekend skiing or some such nonsense. Good thing he has a wife to keep him busy.
Interior Decorating Progress: 2 steps forward, one step back. I now have 2 chairs that I like in the den (oh, beloved flowered Ektorp, how I've yearned for thee!), but I need to spend tomorrow moving them to all possible corners to see where they look best. Because I have nothing better to do. Frankly, I'm just so excited to finally have a den, that I cannot help obsessing like this. Larry does not understand.
Good-night, fellow bloggers! Be good, for goodness sake!
Mice Caught: Zero. And they're well-fed.
Health Report: Poor. I was up with my own croup in the middle of the night. Now I am coughing like a TB patient. In fact, Larry may be bargaining on my imminent demise and simply hiding the chair in the back of his car until such time as he can bring it back in here unimpeded.
Friendships: Shaky. One friend tried to steal my daughter's babysitting services for tomorrow night, the night that Larry and I have been invited out to our first grown-up party in years. And don't tell me she doesn't mean anything sneaky, because she knows she's invited to the same party as us. Another friend is mad that I won't speak to her on the phone due to my painfully swollen vocal cords (although I can do a great Lauren Bacall imitation right now). Apparently, she has something really interesting to share; nevertheless, she refuses to e-mail me. She's retro that way.
On the up side, a third friend gave me some Christmas fudge today. It was delicious. That's right, it's all gone. Considering that I have to return to Weight Watcher's in less than 2 weeks, there's no point in saving it, now is there?
Rachel Mischief Status: Moderate. Larry took the younger 4 kids to a small aviation museum yesterday, where there was some sort of flight simulator that they could try. Rachel was the only one who managed to "fly" the plane, beating out both her older brothers and her father. We are once again making sure to hide our car keys.
Guest Readiness: Near zero. Nothing that a coat of paint in the living room, curtains (same room), a nice piece of art over the couch, and some glassware that actually matches couldn't solve, though. Larry has his work cut out for him. Imagine - if he were single, he'd be idling away his weekend skiing or some such nonsense. Good thing he has a wife to keep him busy.
Interior Decorating Progress: 2 steps forward, one step back. I now have 2 chairs that I like in the den (oh, beloved flowered Ektorp, how I've yearned for thee!), but I need to spend tomorrow moving them to all possible corners to see where they look best. Because I have nothing better to do. Frankly, I'm just so excited to finally have a den, that I cannot help obsessing like this. Larry does not understand.
Good-night, fellow bloggers! Be good, for goodness sake!
Friday, December 21, 2007
A Better Mousetrap
Many thanks to Leah for sharing her, um, traumatic mouse-catching experience in the comments of yesterday's post. You don't have to go read it; just make sure you use the good old-fashioned kind of traps, that kill the creature quickly. Or you may be sorry....
And we do use those old-fashioned kind of traps; but apparently we have smart mice, mice who know how to lick all the peanut butter off the trap without springing it (and who then go take another dump in my silverware drawer - thanks). I hate being outsmarted by rodents. This situation is going to give a whole lot more meaning to "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," won't it? I mean, "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse"......we should be so lucky.
And what about those goodies we leave out for Santa? I can just hear the kids on Christmas morning: "Oooh, look, Mommy, Santa ate some of the cookie! See? You can see where he nibbled it. Hey! What are those little brown things on the plate?" I can't wait.
I have to give Larry credit - he noticed I moved his chair. He even put 2 and 2 together and deduced that I do not like the chair. We're making progress, folks; stay tuned.
We've been having fun telling Susie about Santa Claus and she seemed to be pretty excited about it. Or maybe not. Today she said, "Santa not get me." With apparent relief. Maybe we sang, "You'd better watch out..." a little too much.
I'm trying to figure out how people find time to get divorced; Larry and I are too busy arguing about every stupid little thing in our lives to involve any lawyers. Let's see, the chair, the living room paint, our unsealed grout, and now....Theo's MP3 player. I'm still trying to figure out how to make it work; I'm thinking that the USB ports on our monitor aren't working properly, but Larry refuses to concede that this may be a possibility and says that it is a faulty player. The dumbest aspect of this argument is that neither of us has the faintest idea what we are talking about.
Forget about building a better mousetrap (though, actually, we could use one of those); someone needs to build a more user-friendly (as in idiot-proof) MP3 player.
Oh, dear, someone's coughing. Duty calls.
And we do use those old-fashioned kind of traps; but apparently we have smart mice, mice who know how to lick all the peanut butter off the trap without springing it (and who then go take another dump in my silverware drawer - thanks). I hate being outsmarted by rodents. This situation is going to give a whole lot more meaning to "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," won't it? I mean, "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse"......we should be so lucky.
And what about those goodies we leave out for Santa? I can just hear the kids on Christmas morning: "Oooh, look, Mommy, Santa ate some of the cookie! See? You can see where he nibbled it. Hey! What are those little brown things on the plate?" I can't wait.
I have to give Larry credit - he noticed I moved his chair. He even put 2 and 2 together and deduced that I do not like the chair. We're making progress, folks; stay tuned.
We've been having fun telling Susie about Santa Claus and she seemed to be pretty excited about it. Or maybe not. Today she said, "Santa not get me." With apparent relief. Maybe we sang, "You'd better watch out..." a little too much.
I'm trying to figure out how people find time to get divorced; Larry and I are too busy arguing about every stupid little thing in our lives to involve any lawyers. Let's see, the chair, the living room paint, our unsealed grout, and now....Theo's MP3 player. I'm still trying to figure out how to make it work; I'm thinking that the USB ports on our monitor aren't working properly, but Larry refuses to concede that this may be a possibility and says that it is a faulty player. The dumbest aspect of this argument is that neither of us has the faintest idea what we are talking about.
Forget about building a better mousetrap (though, actually, we could use one of those); someone needs to build a more user-friendly (as in idiot-proof) MP3 player.
Oh, dear, someone's coughing. Duty calls.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Of Mice and Men
All over the blogosphere people are discovering that we've gotten away from the true meaning of Christmas by going hog wild on buying presents. Try not to be too shocked.
I'm sounding a tad cranky, aren't I? You know why? That chair is still here. I went to the trouble last night of moving a different chair from the living room into the den, a chair that coordinates beautifully with my new flowery bower of an armchair; and I put the ugly navy thing into the center of the room, in order to emphasize the fact that there really is no place for it in our home. So I come back from Knit Night tonight to find Larry sitting in it, in the middle of the room. Happy. Apparently, subtlety is lost on him.
Plus, I officially have bronchitis. And the house is a mess. And I have people coming over for Christmas dinner.
No mouse poop in my silverware drawers this morning, though. That's a good sign, isn't it? Although now I'm wondering whether I'm suffering from a hanta virus due to ingesting traces of rodent feces from my eating utensils.
And am I obligated to disclose the mouse problem to prospective dinner guests? Doing that would certainly give us a nice, quiet Christmas, now wouldn't it? Or it would at least give me a good excuse to have us eating off of conveniently disposable (and sanitary) paper and plastic. That may just be the silver lining to this rodent infestation.
I'm sounding a tad cranky, aren't I? You know why? That chair is still here. I went to the trouble last night of moving a different chair from the living room into the den, a chair that coordinates beautifully with my new flowery bower of an armchair; and I put the ugly navy thing into the center of the room, in order to emphasize the fact that there really is no place for it in our home. So I come back from Knit Night tonight to find Larry sitting in it, in the middle of the room. Happy. Apparently, subtlety is lost on him.
Plus, I officially have bronchitis. And the house is a mess. And I have people coming over for Christmas dinner.
No mouse poop in my silverware drawers this morning, though. That's a good sign, isn't it? Although now I'm wondering whether I'm suffering from a hanta virus due to ingesting traces of rodent feces from my eating utensils.
And am I obligated to disclose the mouse problem to prospective dinner guests? Doing that would certainly give us a nice, quiet Christmas, now wouldn't it? Or it would at least give me a good excuse to have us eating off of conveniently disposable (and sanitary) paper and plastic. That may just be the silver lining to this rodent infestation.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
We Can Run, But We Can't Hide
So, people who have been following this blog know that in our old house (the one 2 doors down from here), we tended to have a little mouse problem (like, um, the Israelis have a little Palestinian problem). And the woman who owned this house never got mice. That fact alone made it worth the extra 110,000 dollars to buy it, in my opinion.
Maybe it's us - maybe we are just rodent-attracting folks. All I know is I'm late posting tonight because I've been cleaning mouse poop out of silverware drawers and cabinets and trying not to think about the fact that we used silverware from those drawers today and, um, put them in our mouths, as a matter of fact......excuse me a moment while I go throw up.
Okay, let's change the subject, shall we? I think that would be a healthy idea. Larry took me to IKEA today. I didn't feel well enough to go (this cold seems to have a hankering to turn into pneumonia), but if I had refused a trip to IKEA on terms of ill health, Larry would surely have called 911 in a panic. So I went. We ended up bringing home 2 chairs for our unfurnished den - the beautiful Ektorp armchair with the flowery slipcovers that I had been lusting after for months (and at 40 percent off, as is!) and the depressing dark navy mini-recliner that Larry chose. Because he likes ugly furniture, apparently.
May I add that our den is painted dark grey (sets off the white brick fireplace and wood trim very nicely)? Dark, as in it needs bright furniture to keep it from feeling like the inside of a mausoleum?
So, now that we have the chairs home, it is obvious to anyone who isn't color-blind (or male) that Larry's chair doesn't belong in that room. Or any room, really. I'm trying to think how to break this to him gently. Not being pregnant, I can't use the hormonal-craziness method of getting my way. (Although, maybe menopause qualifies? Am I the only person who still remembers Edith Bunker having a fit because the suitcases were black?) Anna suggests that I just take it back to IKEA on my own, and when Larry asks, I can say, "Chair? What chair?" (I'd like to point out that Anna and I are actually bonding a little over our shared dislike of this piece of furniture.) Another option I've considered is to leave a note on it tonight that says, "The chair goes....or I go."
I don't know if I should risk that last one. He might call my bluff.
Isn't the woman supposed to choose the decor, anyway? I mean, Larry has the back deck and the front and back yards to mess with. I happen to think this is yet another instance where traditional gender roles are important. Perhaps our society's wholesale abandonment of them in the 70's precipitated this whole 50-percent divorce rate thing. I can just picture it: men and women, all over the country, calling their lawyers over irreconcilable interior decorating differences.
Or maybe I'm just rationalizing my determination to get rid of this chair. This dark, depressing, makes-Larry-look-like-his-Dad-when-he's-sitting-in-it chair.....
Maybe it's us - maybe we are just rodent-attracting folks. All I know is I'm late posting tonight because I've been cleaning mouse poop out of silverware drawers and cabinets and trying not to think about the fact that we used silverware from those drawers today and, um, put them in our mouths, as a matter of fact......excuse me a moment while I go throw up.
Okay, let's change the subject, shall we? I think that would be a healthy idea. Larry took me to IKEA today. I didn't feel well enough to go (this cold seems to have a hankering to turn into pneumonia), but if I had refused a trip to IKEA on terms of ill health, Larry would surely have called 911 in a panic. So I went. We ended up bringing home 2 chairs for our unfurnished den - the beautiful Ektorp armchair with the flowery slipcovers that I had been lusting after for months (and at 40 percent off, as is!) and the depressing dark navy mini-recliner that Larry chose. Because he likes ugly furniture, apparently.
May I add that our den is painted dark grey (sets off the white brick fireplace and wood trim very nicely)? Dark, as in it needs bright furniture to keep it from feeling like the inside of a mausoleum?
So, now that we have the chairs home, it is obvious to anyone who isn't color-blind (or male) that Larry's chair doesn't belong in that room. Or any room, really. I'm trying to think how to break this to him gently. Not being pregnant, I can't use the hormonal-craziness method of getting my way. (Although, maybe menopause qualifies? Am I the only person who still remembers Edith Bunker having a fit because the suitcases were black?) Anna suggests that I just take it back to IKEA on my own, and when Larry asks, I can say, "Chair? What chair?" (I'd like to point out that Anna and I are actually bonding a little over our shared dislike of this piece of furniture.) Another option I've considered is to leave a note on it tonight that says, "The chair goes....or I go."
I don't know if I should risk that last one. He might call my bluff.
Isn't the woman supposed to choose the decor, anyway? I mean, Larry has the back deck and the front and back yards to mess with. I happen to think this is yet another instance where traditional gender roles are important. Perhaps our society's wholesale abandonment of them in the 70's precipitated this whole 50-percent divorce rate thing. I can just picture it: men and women, all over the country, calling their lawyers over irreconcilable interior decorating differences.
Or maybe I'm just rationalizing my determination to get rid of this chair. This dark, depressing, makes-Larry-look-like-his-Dad-when-he's-sitting-in-it chair.....
Monday, October 29, 2007
Problem Solved
Larry attempted to construct a wearable tornado for Brian yesterday. Not wanting to get in the way, I took Theo out in the car with his brand-new driver's permit (that's another post - I haven't gotten to the point where I can talk about it yet.) Anyway, we came home, 2 hours and one undented car later (whew!), to find Larry and Brian gone, and a heap of tangled plastic fencing lying on the living room floor. I correctly deduced that Plan A had failed and that they had gone off to Home Depot to purchase materials for Plan B (have I mentioned that we spend more on Halloween than we do on Christmas around here?). Anyway, they returned bearing....weed barrier. Yup. I must have looked a little concerned, because Larry said, "See? No problem - we'll just wrap this stuff around him and we'll have a tornado!" Okay.
10 minutes later, poor little Brian (peering uncertainly out of the small space left for his face) looked as though he was wearing a burka. Or maybe he was trying to dress like a mummy wearing a burka. "Don't worry," Larry reassured me. "Once we tape a few plastic animals and some toy cars to it, it will look like a tornado." At this point I had to say, "Um, no, it will look like someone wearing a burka with toy animals and cars taped to it. And someone will think we are making some weird political statement about American involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq. So, I don't think so..."
Apparently, this was just the out Larry was looking for, because he sort of threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, "Fine! You figure something out then!" May I just point out here that Larry was the one who encouraged Brian in his tornado imaginings? I wanted the kid to be a bat, a costume we already have.
Are irreconcilable costume differences ever stated as grounds for a marital breakup? I wouldn't be surprised.
Anyway, I dashed out to Michael's for a dollar's worth of posterboard and we cut out sort of a tornado shape to hang around Brian's neck and explained to him that we would glue the toy animals and cars onto that, and that's when he started to cry. And he asked why we couldn't make the costume the way he wanted to do it. Which was, it turns out, devastatingly simple. And, no, I don't know why neither of us asked him in the first place.
So on Wednesday night, Brian will go out happily attired in the aforementioned bat costume, with cotton balls taped all over the hood (it's a cloud, see?) and animals and cars and such taped all over the cape/wings and he'll be able to twirl around and pretend he is a tornado, and that is all he ever wanted to do in the first place. And, boy, do we feel stupid.
Maybe I can e-bay the plastic fencing and the weed barrier, and buy Larry some beer with the money. Then maybe he'll start talking to me again.
10 minutes later, poor little Brian (peering uncertainly out of the small space left for his face) looked as though he was wearing a burka. Or maybe he was trying to dress like a mummy wearing a burka. "Don't worry," Larry reassured me. "Once we tape a few plastic animals and some toy cars to it, it will look like a tornado." At this point I had to say, "Um, no, it will look like someone wearing a burka with toy animals and cars taped to it. And someone will think we are making some weird political statement about American involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq. So, I don't think so..."
Apparently, this was just the out Larry was looking for, because he sort of threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, "Fine! You figure something out then!" May I just point out here that Larry was the one who encouraged Brian in his tornado imaginings? I wanted the kid to be a bat, a costume we already have.
Are irreconcilable costume differences ever stated as grounds for a marital breakup? I wouldn't be surprised.
Anyway, I dashed out to Michael's for a dollar's worth of posterboard and we cut out sort of a tornado shape to hang around Brian's neck and explained to him that we would glue the toy animals and cars onto that, and that's when he started to cry. And he asked why we couldn't make the costume the way he wanted to do it. Which was, it turns out, devastatingly simple. And, no, I don't know why neither of us asked him in the first place.
So on Wednesday night, Brian will go out happily attired in the aforementioned bat costume, with cotton balls taped all over the hood (it's a cloud, see?) and animals and cars and such taped all over the cape/wings and he'll be able to twirl around and pretend he is a tornado, and that is all he ever wanted to do in the first place. And, boy, do we feel stupid.
Maybe I can e-bay the plastic fencing and the weed barrier, and buy Larry some beer with the money. Then maybe he'll start talking to me again.
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