New Build Post #1

So this one time, we built a house.

We planned to do it every two years until we had a house paid off.

It was really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. And we decided we never wanted to do it again.

So we waited 8 years until, on a whim (and a very rough, very low, very inaccurate estimate from The Builder), we decided to build again.

That was almost 4 months ago.

It is really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. Again.

Today I had to go talk to The Builder. I didn't want to because I was very super frustrated, I had a headache, and I hadn't gotten enough sleep. I knew I would't be able to keep my cool. I took some deep breaths, took a bite of fried chicken (cause the rest of it, like everything else today, fell on the floor) and drove over.

When I got there, The Builder told me that Ty called to warn him I was on my way and that I wasn't feeling particularly charitable, so to keep the conversation clear of certain topics.

I was a little offended at the insinuation that I can't fight my own battles, or that I need someone to rescue me, but as I left The Builder with these parting words,

"I'm going to go take a nap before I kill the whole world,"

I realized that I DO need rescuing. Often. And I should just be grateful there is someone out there who realizes it before I do.

Long live Ty.

Halloween 2014

Did you think because I only post twice/year lately, that I would forego my Halloween post?

Don't kid yourself.

Count Fauxhawk Dracula

Owl
(I know the feathers look like leaves. Get over it.)

Black-fanged Dracula with an owl on his shoulder - don't worry, just dressing up as Dracula was enough to send his over-active imagination into a tail-spin of nightmares and wanting to sleep with BOTH sisters (instead of just the one he shares a room with). Sigh. This is why we usually make him dress up like a pirate.

Fawn
(thank goodness for windstorms that bring all the tumbleweeds to my yard - I've got enough for a whole herd of deer!)

Halloween 2014 was so ideal, that at one point I opened my front door, took one look, and exclaimed, "Ty, come see this: WE LIVE IN A MOVIE!" and teared-up. No joke. The sunset was perfection, the weather was a dream, the hay ride wagon was loading up for another turn around the subdivision (complete with festive music), all the neighbors were strolling around, laughing and talking, with their exceptionally cute little costumed children, and it was just too much exquisiteness to take in. If your child happened to be in the group who came up my walk at that precise moment, and came home with tales of the weird lady who was passing out tear-stained candy, now you know it was me.

And now you know that I am really, truly serious about my love for Halloween.

The next day, our last baby was baptized. 

It was a sublime end to an impeccable weekend.

The End

Back Me Up Here, Vladimir

I saw something the other evening that I can't stop thinking about.

It was the mudflap girl (you know the one, right?).

With deer (or elk? I don't really know the difference, nor would a delineation make any difference in this instance) antlers.

On the rear window of a truck. Twice.

And, if that's not disturbing enough to make your brow wrinkle in bewilderment (So, you like to combine your porn with hunting? Or your hunting with porn? Or you are hunting girls? Or you wish girls were more like deer? Or deer were more like girls? Or you just really, REALLY like deer?),

the other side of the window was one of those "In Loving Memory of..." deals. Wow. Who wouldn't want to be memorialized (on a truck!) next to a deer-horned mudflap girl? What an honor to know that the man who cares so deeply about silhouettes of naked half male deer/half female human will never forget you. I'm sure his deceased grandmother is smiling down at him and his charming (and thoroughly confusing) male chauvinism.

It struck me as such an odd combination of respect and disrespect, levity and weight,

what and huh, that I've been pondering ever since: who owns this vehicle?

The most generous theory I've come up with so far is

An astoundingly insensitive manlike human who doesn't think about anything for longer than 2 seconds at a time.

And, I'm about 98.3% sure he's single, ladies, so....

Yeah. Steer clear.

I don't know if he's looking to shoot you or just treat you like a piece of meat, but probably it's best to give him a wide berth.

And maybe a disdainful look, just so he knows you disapprove.

Vladimir says, "Real men shoot deer/elk and respect women. Not that you have to shoot animals to be a real man, it's just that real men know the difference between animals and women, and do not behave like animals themselves. And when real men wish to pay tribute to someone..." I had to cut him off. You know how he gets when he's passionate about a subject. Ol' Vlad and his soap box rants! 

All I Need to Know About Florida I Learned on a Comfy Chair in My Hotel's Courtyard

I spent the week in Florida. Land of oranges and humidity. You know the one.

And here are some of the things I learned within a two mile radius of our hotel (including Tampa General Hospital, a dirty bullet-proof Dominoes Pizza, and Walmart, which is all I saw) that I will go ahead and generalize:

#1. My hair and skin are big fans of Florida. Big, moisturized, extra curly fans.
#2. Florida does summer right. None of this 60 degrees at the end of June crap.
#3. Florida is too far away, so I will most likely never visit again.
#4. Florida's Walmarts carry canned boiled peanuts ('boled' peanuts to all my Southern-accented family). Which makes me wild with envy and righteous indignation.
#5. Florida treats white guys named Tyrone like royalty. If royalty is treated with long bouts of laughter and disbelief, nonsensical ribbing, and free pizza.
#6. Florida has the cutest little lizards. I never thought I would use 'cute' to describe a reptile, but that's what Florida does to you! It's magical, I tell you!

#7. The left side of Florida looks like this in the evening:

#8. Then the lights come on, and the right side looks like this:

#9. The parathyroid surgeons in Florida don't mess around. They diagnose your husband with one tumor, and then they find two! The operation takes 15 minutes, because Florida parathyroid surgeons are awesome. And brilliant. And hilarious. Kind of like me, but with scrubs, lots of money, and high-tech patented-by-them surgical tools. No wonder so many people live in Florida!

(I took this picture of a picture in the hospital waiting room - #7&1/2. Florida hospitals have gorgeous photographs of places you'll never see in person)

#10. Florida makes all your hopes and dreams come true, very painfully (Ty is officially cured of hyperparathyroidism). And now the exciting (which is a nice way of saying excruciating) road to recovery begins. In Idaho. Land of wind and potatoes. You know the one.

Because Current Life Situations Aren't Enough to Kill Me, I've Decided to Put Myself Through This Nightmare Again

A house that took me 16 hours to clean should take home-buyers longer than 15 minutes to look through.

I'd be willing to sign a petition stating as much.

Or lock them in and force them to notice every detail until they make my swollen, aching feet feel justified.

I've drafted a letter to be posted on my front door for next time:

Dear House Looker,

Oh, you think you've seen all you need to see? Bull crap. Now get down on your hands and knees and really appreciate those clean floors! Don't even take them for granted. Most days they are sticky. And there are usually stray pieces of popcorn under the stove.

See that garage? It didn't vacuum itself, unless that's what will make you want to buy this house, in which case, it did.

What's that? You just peeked into the storage room without so much as a moment of silence to remember the hours lost in its organization? For shame!

In 15 minutes, there's no WAY you could possibly understand the amount of blood, sweat, tears, and yelling that went into getting all children's rooms clean, straight, and vacuumed ON THE SAME DAY.

Yeah. As in simultaneously clean. Those are not words I string together casually. Or ever. So you'd better recognize.

I really do deserve some sort of medal. Or trophy. Or vacation.

At the very least, you could buy my freaking house.

Jerks.

Sincerely,

Sick of Cleaning This House for Nothin'

Dear Editor of Soccer Coaches

Do you ever realize you haven't taken a single picture this season,
and have to dig one out from last season? 

Dear Soccer Coaches,

I appreciate all you do. Heaven knows I couldn't do it. Mostly because even after 12 years of attending games I still do not understand the rules, and because I have an aversion to objects flying toward my face. At any rate, I know it's a thankless job that your wife probably signed you up to do without your permission. My hat is off to you and your donation of time and patience.

However, let me address one minor thing you all eventually do: the kids vs. parents practice and/or game. It is the worst. I dread it more than anything else I have found dreadful about adulthood. I do not want to play soccer. With you, with other parents, with my own kid. That's why I pay good money to the local league - so my kid(s) can have someone else to play with. If I wanted and/or knew how to play soccer, I would never invest so much time and money in driving them to and from multiple practices and games; I'd just stay home. I have a backyard, you know. And driving around just happens to be my least favorite thing in the world. Besides playing soccer with other parents and our children.

I know what you're thinking: "But it's so much fun for the kids!"
I don't care. There are a lot of things that are fun for kids. I can't speak for anyone else's children, but mine have plenty of opportunities for fun. We don't have to do them all. And what happened to their being on a soccer team counting as fun enough?

Tell you what: just as soon as I want to play soccer, I'll go ahead and let you know. Until then, let me sit in my car with my book during practice, the way God intended. Just accept my thank you note and Jamba Juice gift card at season's end, and let's leave the soccer playing to the kids.

I'm begging you,


Andrea

Six

I just found this unpublished draft from a couple years ago:

Overrepresentation, overgraze, recontamination, resocialization, shame-faced, shadow.

What do these six words have in common?

They were all found on the same sheet of paper. On my coffee table.

In Samera's first-grade handwriting.

I asked her what they were.

She replied,

"Oh, they're just some words I'm practicing."

"For school?" I asked.

"No, just for fun. I found them in the dictionary."

"At school?" I asked.

"No. Our dictionary."

Now here are six things you should know:

#1. I didn't know we still had a dictionary.
#2. I'll have to ask Samera where it is. So I can look up these words.
#3. Samera is a bizarre, wonderful creature.
#4. If I could get a picture that truly represented (overrepresented?) the color of her eyes, I would move Heaven and Earth. I swear they are reddish-brown.
#5. This picture makes me inordinately happy, as it is the first time I have looked at her and seen a family resemblance.
#6. She dresses up like this and pretends to be The Helping Fairy, and will cheerfully ask me what I need her to do, and then do it, never breaking character. Everyone should have a Mera.