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"What?"
"Is is the one with the circle and two lines or the one with the circle and the arrow?"
"Well, think of it this way-boys have a pointer. Girls don't."
"Mom, you're scaring me"
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You're in your best outfit. Dressed to the nines with matching jewelry and briefcase. You are ALL about takin care of bi'niss with that scorchin resume in-hand.
In the interview, you've got them eating out of the palm of your hand. You answer every question perfectly, keep their attention, are personable and professional. Then, they ask about a skill listed on your resume.
"Internet savvy skills...interesting...could you explain that for us please?"
Oh yes, man with the stain on his tie. I shall explain. Because it is my internet savvy'ness that shall bring your business to the next level. It is my internet savvy'ness that shall make people want to do business with me, therefore making YOUR business thrive, whatever business it is. It's what makes me hip and cool, smart and NOW. You will be thought savvy for hiring someone with internet savvy skills like mine.
Let's say you receive an email from a supplier. It reads:
Teh shipmnet is lsot. Pls re-rder. 4-6 wks to dlvery.
Your top brains have tried to decipher this code, and are beside themselves. You all sit around scratching your heads because it makes NO sense, I tell you...NONE! You have dialed and dialed said supplier and got only an automated system that leads you to the same Captain and Tenille song. I breeze in, look at the email, grab a form, filling it out and handing it back to you. You look a the form, a replacement order for a lost shipment with a letter to the customer detailing the expected delivery date, and you stand there with your mouth open, muttering guttoral sounds of thanks as I waltz back out of your office into my own very large corner office. That's why you will pay me the big bucks.
Yes, I can take jibberish and read between the lines, deciphering the importance and taking action. I speak IM and html fluently, dabble in flash and java and my .avi's will knock you out of your chair. I am mp3, wav and midi compatible and can tell the difference between a jpg and a gif. I know what forums are and why we use them, and YES...I AM A BLOGGER. Hear me roar!
Yeah, you want me.
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I can see my sparkling clean living and dining room from where I sit in my filthy can't-see-the-floor bedroom. I spent my entire day today doing laundry and scrub scrub SCRUBBING my living room floor-edge to edge, corner to corner, behind and under everthing.
You might be asking yourself, "SELF, how can this woman with a degenerative muscle disorder do such manual labor without consequence?" Without consequence? Oh, my friend...stick around. Today, I'm basking in the glory of my beautiful guest-ready house. Tomorrow, I'll be writhing in my bed, wishing I hadn't dumped the fentanyl and morphine.
Another thing that would have been nice with a little fentanyl and morphine, is sitting through the painful hour between 8 and 9 on Tuesday night, lovingly referred to around here as "American Snide'ol". I was absolutely shocked to hear Paula, of all people, be picky and make comments about tone (because she is SO qualified to give an opinion in that department... straight up ).
Simon was polite for what I saw (except a few well-deserved pokes), however the judges as a whole were probably more rude than I think I've ever seen them. It was reminiscent of high school. "Dude...look at her! Are you doubling for big bird?" Ok they didn't say that, but the point is they were juvenile in some of their reactions to the less-than-desirable contestants, and the producers made sure to air the ones that were most likely to be scoffed-at.
I'm losing faith in the program. The good news is, once they start actually singing whole songs, I'll probably get sucked right back in and will be once talking about who sang how on Tuesday night blogs.
For now, I'm happy to discuss other things.
Like the cold. It's VERY cold outside. So cold that I need to keep my coat on when I walk in the grocery store, lest I desire to advertise the temperature. Although, I wonder...if ALL the women who walked into the store had their high-beams on, then none of us would be unique...we'd be one perky woman in a group of perky women. Move on folks, nothing to see here. Just a small glimpse into my twisted brain.
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I smell urine. I smell LIKE urine. I can smell urine everywhere I look and everywhere I turn. Thankfully, it's probably just me, because I believe I have finally cleaned the last of the urine I found today. Unless you count what has permanently fixed itself to my person. I hope I don't meet anyone important today.
Such an honor to meet you, Keanu. Yes, that is urine you smell. Long story. Yes, I understand. 100 yards.
As is so often the case, we didn't realize how large of a problem we had until we really dug down (rather, until *I* dug down) and cleaned the corner of the dining room. Right about now, I'm thinking I probably should have laid flooring down instead of painting the subfloor like I saw on Trading Spaces. Perhaps their animals had more bladder control.
For those of you with weak stomachs regarding bodily fluids, please stop reading right now.
As I got to the bottom of the pile of items in the corner of my dining room (mostly craft stuff, beading and scrapbook supplies) I found several old puddles. Hard to say on a dark blue floor, but when the cleaning solution hit them, it became clear to me that these were puddles of pee. Nasty, dried, yellow stains on my dining room floor. After spending the better part of the afternoon scrubbin and cleaning and picking up urine-covered craft supplies (which leads to the inevitable "to toss or to clean" dilemma) and scrubbing still more, I am mulling over in my mind when this could have possibly happened.
Clearly I don't spend enough time cleaning. Obviously, I don't watch that dog enough. No doubt I am a poor housecleaner and this is most likely a health hazard. To my credit, I DID clean it today. Cleaned, bleached and enzymed (you pet owners know what I mean!) until there is no trace of the smell of pee. Except on me. I need a shower.
Now that things are back to some semblance of normal, I'm left with the problem of HOW to fix this urine-machine of a dog. I think we'll need to get him clipped (somewhere, Jinx runs off yiping to hide under the deck). Maybe he'll stop marking my house. Or, like Bruce Almighty, maybe I can 1. teach my dog to use the toilet or 2. since he can't reach the toilet, move him slowly out the door until he's only peeing outside.
I can't get rid of him...look at this:
He's her BEST friend! Ahh the trials of pet owners. *sigh*
As is usually the case, while I was writing today's entry, the 15 year old had a melt down and I had to remove his bedroom door to make a point. I love my power drill. He, of course, responded by kicking and hitting various surfaces in his room and the hallway and making lovely loud noises as I continue to finish this blog. Charles, I wish you were home. What am I to do with this man-boy? How much breakage and yelling should I let go by without calling someone big and strong to "get my back"? I hate that he can make me nervous.
Anyhoo, somehow now the pee doesn't seem like such a problem. Or, the dog isn't the one in this house that is "pissy"
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As we speak, HH (hot hubby) is refining and perfecting that which will be his very own BLOG!! I say this with great excitement, mostly because, due to the nature of his blog, it represents no threat to mine at all. Witty and charming as he is, most of my readers will not want to know much about management and training, or how to resolve human resources conflicts or increase your numbers and impress your bosses. You see, HH is master of all things management-related, and could teach a fish to bowl. Er...no pun intended. He is a masterful human resources specialist, and is renown for his abilities. I expect great things, and most of all, look forward to some extra duckets to pay for the many MANY improvements I expect to make around this house in the coming months, providing my body cooperates.
I also would like to share my utter giddiness at my HH's habit of calling out things like "How do you spell 'absolutely'" and "Hey how do you spell 'permanent'?" I suppose I would more worried if he asked how to spell 'sexual favors' or 'I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine'. What an upright (no, not UPTIGHT) man I have! Keanu can eat his heart out.
This brings me to my next completely off-topic subject. Do you think we have, without knowing it, communicated with someone famous online? I mean, what if one of the bloggers we talk to regularly were really a famous person? An actor? Keanu? What if, on the MMORPG's we play, one of the people we hang out and game with (online of course) were like Brad Pitt? No, wait...he's too busy roaming the globe with Angie. What about George Clooney? That would explain why he's still single. A computer geek who spends all his time in-game has little time for chicks, and it's much preferable to the idea that he prefers men. I couldn't handle another George Michael. I was SO disappointed. Yes, Toddy, I'm sure you were thrilled. My loss, your gain. Because he was SO going to prom with me.
Finally, what, exactly, is it that makes my 13 year old daughter such a jekyl and hyde? She sat sweetly with me at church today, cuddled with me and made cookies, then the moment I suggest she do dishes, SNAP! Suddenly there's stomping and slamming of doors, rolling of eyes and life is unfair. Anyone have ideas for a strong dose of reality?
Speaking of reality, time to go watch a movie and forget mine for awhile. Goodnight!
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In the background, a cat squeals in pain
"Stop that..." says the dad
"I didn't do anything!" says the boy
"Listen, I'm not stupid. I've been on this world for 41 years, and I know what it sounds like when a cat is being hurt" says dad
"You would" says mom
Dad gets up, storms into the other room.
I am SO not gettin any lovin' tonight. *sigh*
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This weekend (so far) has been both amazing, and heartbreaking.
I expect that those who do not share my faith might not relate, but bear with me. We can all stand to learn a thing or two (or five) about each other.
I went to a worship seminar this weekend. What this means to the layman is that I spent two days in workshops with famous musicians and songwriters to help me be better at my craft-music, singing, songwriting and the like.
I've been playing guitar and singing/writing songs since I was 12, and for the first time, I have a grasp on the music theory behind all the songs I've written! I can't tell you how exciting it is to finally understand why I prefer a dissonant chord and C2 and G2 instead of normal C and G. Sorry, didnt' mean to go off in another language.
**pause for a moment to FULLY enjoy the sound of my husband making threatening faces at the dog while the youngest makes YIPE sounds...therefore making DOG go crazy. Very mature. But I gotta love him.**
The seminar left me feeling so very hopeful about my possibilities as a serious worship leader and performer, and I'm inspired. I've always been kind of mediocre (imagine that) at my guitar and keyboard playing, and very held up by my inability to understand music theory and how it all comes together. I feel like I have finally gotten a piece of the puzzle...the one that makes all the difference...that ONE puzzle piece that is the last edge piece with a part of Mickey's nose on it...now I can move to the rest of the puzzle.
The rest of the puzzle, is my life. There are some areas in my life that are in desperate need of overhaul (besides my waistline). I have so much junk in my closet begging to be gotten rid of that I can't open it at all...it would all come tumbling down on me in front of everyone. I dont' want it anymore-and it's time to clean it out.
At first, I felt that we needed, as a family, to address this issue....all our issues...and try to make our family stronger. Help the boy to overcome his perfectionism and self-doubt...help the middle child to see her value and not be so outwardly focused...and help the youngest see that her actions are NOT who she is, and people make mistakes. Then, help darling hubby to realize that there is more to life than working and staring at his computer screen. There is love and laughter, pain and sorrow and the joy of knowing why you're here, then working toward that.
I want so desperately to share this time of growth with them, and was nearly in tears, until...
I realized this is not a journey we can take together. This prospect makes me so very lonely. The greatest thing that could ever happen to me is happening now, and I have to go through it alone. They'll be able to see what's happening, but they won't be walking the same path. I think it will take me some time to adjust to the idea.
Still, this is a journey long overdue and well worth the wait. I want to practice guitar until I'm proficient-until I can hold the attention of an audience with no other instruments but my guitar and my voice. I'm excited at the prospects and to see what God plans to do.
I promise at some point I'll be funny again. Every now and then, isn't it great to be real?
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My brief post this evening (morning) is to fulfill a promise to post my beautiful pictures.
First, my photos of a lovely tree in the library parking lot with a very interesting few rays of light hitting it JUST so.
Next, the explanation about the scraped knees.
You see, this evening, I took my case-less guitar (don't tell Nate, Amy!) and my thimble-full of talent and played my original music at an all-talent night at a local worship seminar. There were people from all over there, and I was very happy it went so well. They sang along with my songs, and applauded happily when I finshed. It was blissful.
Then, as I was making my exit, I was hastening a bit too much and...TRIPPED. Flat to the face, guitar face down with a loud THUNK and every face toward me. It was my finest moment.
Share it with me.
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Fibromyalgia is not only a big word, but a beast of a disorder. Most folks, when they hear the word wrinkle their brow and say “What’s that?”. Some say “Oh I know a lady who has that…it’s miserable”..then there are those who say “You should try x y and z because it’s a cure. I know it is. Ten people told my brother’s wife’s sister’s nephew and they’re all living in a commune now, cured of all ailments.” Yes, and they’re also mixing a batch of special kool-aid right now. They saved you a cup. Thanks for sharing.
It’s not that I’m angry at their misunderstanding-that would be hypocritical, and we *all* know that *I* am not hypocritical-or fat-or narcissistic. Truth be told, when I learned about this syndrome I was certain that my doctor was mistaken, because, after all, only lazy women (mostly women) who want to collect disability have Fibromyalgia. They are the whiny ones who want a reason for people to pity them and give them stuff. They even give you disabled parking permits for it? Roll-the-eyes what’s next-special treatment? Needless to say, some of my preconceptions were misconceptions not to be confused with conception of which I am no longer partaking.
Moving on.
My brother’s girlfriend (Or BG for short) wrote a lovely essay on life with FM for her nursing classes. It inspired me to write my own little walk-through of an average day with FM. Bear with me, because bearing is what keeps you going.
In the morning, my eyes pop open, most oft to the sound of one child or another knocking on the door, followed closely by my husband yelling at them for the umpteenth time that they should NOT knock on the door in the morning lest they wake the angry bear. As soon as I roll over I can feel it. My back and shoulders are stiff and sore. I feel as if I might have fallen out of bed last night and possibly injured something. Then, as I begin to move around more, I realize it’s not just my shoulders, it’s my neck. It’s my arms and my back, my legs and my buttocks (oh yes…it really likes my buttocks), it’s my feet-oh my feet-and it’s my fingers, my toes, my face and my skin. All of it. When I say that everything hurts, I cannot repeat enough the word EVERYTHING. Is it possible to have your fingernails hurt? Trust me, it is.
It is my morning reminder that my life is no longer like it used to be. No more do I wake at 5:30 a.m. to head off to a gym to work out. Yes, I get to enjoy the lovely delayed onset muscle pain, without the benefit of having worked out to earn it. Also without looking like I lift more than a twinkie or five to my mouth every day. Actually, Twinkies are not my thing. I’m a Zingers girl, myself. Tiger Tail zingers. Raspberry coconut cream filled deliciousness right there.
Still, I look at my secret stash of photos-taken when I was whiddling down my body fat and wearing a good 3 sizes smaller than I am now-and long for the days of carefree deadlifts. I miss my lunges, my crunches. I miss the stinky sweaty gym and even that big guy who really REALLY needed to know what Gillette makes besides razors and shave cream.
These days, I have a workable window of about 2 hours. I can handle maybe 2 hours of shopping, 2 hours of housework or laundry or 2 hours of running around doing errands. After that, even the handicapped parking spot is too far to walk and it’s time to go home. I’m waiting for that first person to come up to me and ask why I have a disabled permit when I am so clearly not disabled. If I haven’t reached my limit for the day, watch out. I might just spout some really harsh rhetoric. Or stick my tongue out. I’m all about maturity.
Once I get home (or realize I’m done with housework), I plop down in front of this lovely monitor, checking and double checking this blog to see if Bah or Belinda have left me some giggly tidbits to make the pain a little less…um…painful. By dinnertime, it’s the hottest bath I can possibly deal with and begging and pleading with Keanu, er, hubby, to give me a gentle massage. A little Kava Kava (thanks bro!) before bed and it’s off to a restless night’s sleep, waking each time the Keanu moves. I often find the pain so intense, that I have to change positions every half hour or so, and eventually end up getting out of bed and heading to the computer, where I again, obsessively check my email and blog to see if you like me…you really like me...
So here I am, checking and blogging, lusting over Hot Toddy in vain, watching Dooce get her ear chewed for not having Leta potty trained, Helping KaraMia with dating advice, giving Bahrageous some suggestions on possible reasons why customer service sucks, loving Finslippy so much it hurts (my sides…from laughing), sadly relating to Martini’s and Milk regarding cleanliness of personal products, and I could go on and on. And I do. My list grows daily. Today I added “I’m Just Drunk in Someone’s Garage”, thanks to Mamma Loves. Apparently Mamma Loves JJ today. I understand why. I have a single friend, but so far JJ has not emailed or IM’d me. I shall keep you posted.
One thing I shall not, is continue tonight. I’m tired. And sore. Surprised? I’m not. There is no wine in the house (I’m trying to be good) and I am fighting the urge to have a bowl of Lucky Charms-like cereal made by someone other that General Mills. Those marshmallowy bits just call to me. It’s not my fault.
If I give in, will you still love me? Read me? Refer me? To a therapist? As well you should. Do you think he’ll look like Keanu?
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Well kind of. The husband sweeps in for a small attack. Since my wife so kindly plastered my face on her blog I thought I would return the favor. After all I have braggin rights about the most beautiful woman in the world. If she has not mentioned it before she is a talented singing artist and im a gonna ping ya with her music. Quick take a look before she finds this post. Love ya hunny........runs away.
Her fantastic original music<----Click there
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Which is my husband? Can you tell?
Indeed, they must have been separated at birth. Remarkable!
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I have some lovely photos to show you all, but I still have to figure out Flikr and make it happen. Then your eyes can be bombarded by my below-amateur photography on a daily basis. Oh joy.
On to my son, for this is certain to be the most embarassing post I have ever forwarded to his entire Sophomore class. You think I jest?
First of all, let me give you background on the whole "dishes" scenario. At OUR home, the three children take turns doing dishes for a week at at time. This means for seven days ( SEVEN DAYS I whisper) they will, upon completion of dinner (whether at the table or scattered at various locations) hunt and gather all dishes, taking them to the sink where they shall be washed and placed UPSIDE DOWN on the dish rack and/or towel until dry. It is acceptable to leave clean dishes drying overnight. This makes it much easier to find a glass and then pretend we couldn't find one, drinking straight from the carton. Would you like some milk?
Should a child miss a day, said day is added to the end of the child's sentence. Often, days are missed, and more often, dishes are left behind simply because a child didn't turn around and look on the counter behind them. "I didn't see those" is not an accepted excuse. "I was busy duct taping my sister to the ceiling" is also not an acceptable excuse. Don't get any ideas, Mike.
Fast forward to today, day EIGHT of Mike's dish duties.
We have, during the last eight fun-filled days, missed dishes, washed them by brushing them off over the sink and placing them in the rack (say it with me...EWWWW), complained numerous times that we didn't make the mess, or that there were NO dishes in the sink yesterday after we did them (Um...yes, because you had just DONE them...), just plain forgot, just plain purposely forgot, just plain walked in our room and pretended we didn't have a kitchen and made ourselves too busy watching "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer" to actually wash the dishes.
I know you think I'm making a mountain of a molehill, but seriously, we dont' have enough dishes to just fill the sink...we run OUT of them. And honestly, I much prefer not to have to scrub the dried egg yolk off my glass before tossing it aside to drink from the carton, because that's just GROSS .
This evening, upon informing my famous 15 year old that it was, indeed, STILL his day to do dishes, he grew quiet, claimed stomach pain, wanted to have a "serious" talk with me, and actually asked me to walk him through the correct procedure for washing our dishes. After physically holding my husband back from pouncing on him, I calmly laid out the procedure, and he skulked back to the sink to finish.
Tonight was simply one example of how Mike has grown increasingly quiet and just kind of sad. He tried to convince me several times last night that today's finals were those three classes in which he had no hope of passing, therefore he should get to stay home. Tomorrow, THOSE were the ones he would pass and get credit for. And it was very unreasonable for me to ask him to attend school anyway. It was also very unreasonable for him to ask me to be a mom 1. after 9 p.m. and 2. during Red Dawn. I know, Mother of the Year.
Friends at school have said he seems so tired all the time. He's getting migraines almost weekly, and the other day he actually vomited in the morning, then was fine all day. For a while he was begging me to home school him or remove him from this school, until his "guidance counselor" told him that home school kids either excel and go to Stanford and Yale, or fail and get their GED's, only to work for McDonald's or Taco Bell. Wait a minute...
In my heart of hearts I'm terrified that he's the kid that you read about in papers, the one who nobody saw as a threat until he showed up at school in a bikini and a pipe bomb. No wait..that's not true. Actually, my biggest fear is that the boy has contracted my horrible genes in the mental health department, and is headed toward depression, if he isn't there already. Or worse, he has both my bad genes and a serious situation at school that he can't talk about. This "failing school" thing is hard to deal with-he's a perfectionist in every way. Throw into the mix a predisposition to clinical depression and self injury (we'll talk about this later), and I'm worried.
Can my boy take his gloomy 1.4 GPA and make up all that work, both keeping up with the new semester and making up for this one? Will he be so discouraged that he'll just give up on school altogether? What will we do when he realizes we actually can't make him go to school?
One thing is certain-if he drops out of school and ends up working for Jack in the Box, I'm blaming his father.
If I lose my son, I'll spend my life blaming myself.
Remind me tomorrow that I wanted to post on the "catch-22 of world view".
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We are watching "Red Dawn". Remember that movie from the 80s? It stars Patrick Swayze (along with his Dirty Dancing co-star Jennifer Grey), Charlie Sheen and C. Thomas Howell, the hottest stars in the 80s. Too cool for neon. Basically it begins with a classroom learning about history when suddenly parachutes drop from the sky in massive numbers, beginning an invasion the United States by Russia and Cuba.
I wish I had thought of this movie a few weeks ago when replying to an interesting letter to the editor of my local newspaper. He suggested the following:
"Think what could be done if the U.S. military was eliminated and that money used to help our neighbors succeed" (Readers' Forum, Dec. 16).
Wow. I'm simply shocked by the mere stupidity of this suggestion. I realize that the majority of my readers are not thoroughly impressed with my use of cinema to illustrate my view of world events, and that I might possibly receive my very first nasty email, which will be followed by my very first deleting of a nasty email. The first of many, if I'm any good at this.
So this movie seems far-fetched. Especially considering Russia doesn't exist anymore and Castro is on his death bed. I doubt they'll be making a show of force anytime soon. In Red Dawn, our surrounding countries were in turmoil and unable to be allies. We had no union of countries to support us and the US stood alone. So Russia went and got its friends to come kick our butts after school. The result was a full invasion of over 50% of the United States and World War III. Far fetched, yes...but not if we eliminated our military. You might as well take the money that is currently paying the salaries of our servicemen and women and put it toward dancing lessons for the nation's pets. MUST have good entertainment above all else!
I suppose I'm not making a political statement as much as expressing the opinion that eliminating (not reducing, not re-working) our military is perhaps one of the most dangerous and short-sighted suggestions I've seen of late. I'm also saying that perhaps this man is a "special" man...and doesn't fully grasp what he is suggesting. Either that, or he has an excess of "special" mushrooms. Either way, it's especially ridiculous and worthy of a good laugh or a poke in the nose.
I also would like to state that I am not prepared at this juncture to give you my full view on the war in Iraq or our military, but will do so at some point in the future when you are fully addicted to reading my blog and don't plan to send me white powder in unmarked envelopes when I say something that might (or most certainly will) be offensive. You'll be too addicted to be overly upset and will return again and again to partake of the strong cup of caramel mocha latte that is my blog. Half fat, even. Not me, I'm fully fat. No apologies.
In closing, I suggest that if you haven't seen Red Dawn, please go rent it. Not now, because it's at my house...but soon. You'll probably need a VHS player, because it's old. Like me. Or you...depending on how old you are (I'm looking at you, Charles!). This movie's emotions are vivid and effective, and the story is fully believable, even now. While you watch it, give some thought as to what would happen if we were actually alone in the world. No other countries havin our back. Sure, we're ever-so-popular right now, but imagine if we had NO allies. Then imagine that some mushroom smoking half-wit decided to eliminate our military. That home of yours? Comfy huh? Yea, well now it's behind enemy lines and occupied by a colonel in the (insert enemy country here) army. He likes your DVD collection and the ping pong table. He also likes my new appliances. He's very glad we no longer have a military.
I'm glad that's not reality...yet.
A toast to fear mongering. And guns. And ping pong. And my blog...all at the same time.
Commence with the hate mail!
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Old stove...
Meet your replacement:
WOOHOOO!!
Technorati Profile
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In what will finally make me a front-runner for that sought-after Mother of the Year award, today we brought our adorable 9 year old daughter in to the dentist to fill what a few months ago (when a GOOD mother would have had it fixed) was a mere cavity, but now is the Grand Canyon of cavities, and entered the recordbooks as of 3p.m. this afternoon.
As we checked in, I heard the woman at the desk say "That's her...the poor girl..." Then, like a lunchroom scene of a bad teen movie where the cheerleader just got dumped (or pregnant), each person in scrubs that we passed stopped what they were doing and shot each other glances, then whispered after we passed. Feeling ever so confident, I greeted our dentist with his lovely gold watch and high-tech equipment.
"Well now...this has gotten a little BIGGER since last we saw you..." but I heard him...yes, I HEARD him thinking, "Good GOD woman! This would have been a 30 minute appointment 8 months ago for a small amount...how could you IGNORE this problem like this? You're lucky I don't call children's services!" Listen Mr. gold-watch-wearing-BWM-driving-upper-class-dentist-man...I spent my last dollahs on Busch beer, a carton of smokes and a VHS copy of the whole last season of Dukes of Hazzard-I got no money for teeths!
Or something to that affect.
In actuality, they were quite kind, and very patient with our wiggleworm girl. He drilled two of her teeth, took out some of the nerve and filled them both. Apparently, she'll have those teeth three more years, so my "let's ignore it and it'll fall out soon enough" approach was ill-advised. Note to self: prioritize dental work so my girls aren't recruited for before and after dentists' videos.
In other news, WE GOT A NEW STOVE TODAY!! I'm completely beside myself with excitement, mainly because I am utterly shocked we could buy it. We went to (insert name of large home-improvement store here)* to find a belt for the dryer that stopped turning my clothes (after a lovely almost-flaming display of its heating POWER (pronounced POWAHHHH ), and found a $1000 stainless steel slide-in stove/oven combo marked down to $498 because of a scratch. Even so, that's a chunk of change. Then, much to my giddy laughter, he says "You know, we can get that if you want. We could use a new stove." This was followed by girl-screams and me jumping up and down whilst holding his neck in a half-hug, half-choke with joy. I should have taken video.
So we bought this stove and got it home. Here is where the real fun began. Hubby had to hacksaw the ledge where our old stove (circa 1972) was, because it was a drop-in, and this is a slide-in. While he's sawing away, the 9 year old enters the room, a startled look on her face.
"What is Daddy DOING?" she asked
I raised an eyebrow (I do this alot) and said,
"He's hacking up body parts to make you a little brother."
I think she almost believed me.
I love my kids!
Nite folks
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