The bay window I originally thought was infested with termites is really infested with flying ants. The brittle wood around the window and in the wall is rot due to a leak. I suppose this information should make me happy. I mean, rather than feasting upon the wood, termite-fashion, these ants are just using my decomposing window and wall to breed.
Replacing the window has involved no less than THREE different contractors and an architect who have all informed me that I will, indeed, be in debt for the rest of my life.
Um, hello? What else is new??
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Kid Speak
How we knew our four-year-old was spending too much time with his great-grandmother:
- He blamed his fatigue after running around the park on his “blood pressure.”
- He became FASCINATED with the weather report (ABC7 Chicago's Jerry Taft, specifically).
- After inspecting a bruise on his knee, he questioned whether his “coumadin level” was too high. (Note: He didn’t say “blood thinner”; he said “coumadin.” Apparently, he prefers certain brands of medication.)
- He asked if he could watch “Wheel of Fortune.”
Bathroom Humor:
“Dad, I have to go poo poo, and my arms are too tired….” –after Scott installed a light in the bathroom that detects movement…but turns off every 30 seconds if someone is sitting still. (Scott told him to keep flapping his arms until the steaks were off the grill.)
(How Josh got Scott back for the sensor light in the bathroom.)
Josh: I put the toilet paper in the toilet.
Scott: Good boy!
Josh: I just can’t get the little roll to go down the drain….
Scott: WHAT??
How We Knew It Was Time For The Stranger Danger Talk:
(Shouted through shower curtain)
Josh: Mommy, there’s a man at the door!
Me: That’s okay, honey. Don’t open the door. If it’s important, he’ll come back later, after I’m out of the shower.
Josh: I already opened the door.
Me: WHAT??
Josh: He wants to know if we need our trees trimmed.
Me: WHAT??
Josh: I told him to wait and ask you when you get out of the shower.
Me: WHAT??
Josh: He said he didn’t want to come in and is just standing by the door. Can I ask him to watch cartoons with me?
Me: NO!!
On Gender:
- Age 2, while attempting to pull down my swimsuit bottoms in the locker room at the pool: “MaMa, I see a furry kitty in there!”
- Age 3, announced upon entering a crowded train car: “Hi, everybody! I have a penis, and my mommy has a vagina! Don’t you, Mommy? She does! She has a vagina!” (Some people actually responded to his enthusiasm for genitals by clapping.)
On Style and Fashion:
(Age 3, upon sitting across from a woman on the train with a penchant for brightly colored eye shadow)
Josh: You have pretty make-up!
Woman: Why, thank you!
Josh: It’s so many beautiful colors….but why did you smear all of them all over your face?? Mommy, you better wash her face--
Me: --Shhhhhh!
Josh: But, Mommy, look at her FACE! There’s too many colors!
Me: Shhhhhh!
(While inspecting Mommy’s new geometric print dress)
Me: What do you think? Do I look pretty?
Josh: Hmmmmmm…turn around.
Me: (revolving in front of 4 year old) Well?
Josh: Just what I thought. Too many dots. You better change. You make me dizzy.
Me: Geesh!
Josh: Hurry and change. I feel sick.
Upon being told he couldn’t have an M&M last Sunday morning:
“Mommy, I brush my teeth, I go pee and poo poo in the toilet, I sort the silverware (from the dishwasher) and put it away in the drawer, I put my clothes on all by myself, I put on my sandals all by myself, I put Noah’s poopy diapers in the garbage when you change him, and I take baths even when I don’t want to! WHY CAN’T I HAVE ONE LITTLE M&M??” (He got the M&M.)
Friday, July 25, 2008
Be Late.
I am always late. ALWAYS. This used to bother me-- and occasionally it still does--however, I think I am resigning myself to the fact that I will never, ever be anywhere on time.
I vaguely remember showing up to places on time in my youth. The marching band I was in during high school required that I be present early, not on time. “Early is on time; on time is late” was the phrase I think the director intoned. He hardly ever screamed in my direction over lateness (though he did for lots of other things), so it stands to reason that I got there within the window of acceptability.
Since that time, however, I have lost my drive for perfection in the “on time” realm. I think the change happened with the birth of my children. No matter how hard I tried, I could never be anywhere close to on time with my kids. Let’s say we had a 10 am pediatrician appointment. I would start our morning ritual at 6 am, giving us lots of flex time, only to have some vomiting/poop/pee pee/Mommy-I-can’t-find-my…./some sort of discomfort emergency halt my forward progress at the worst possible moment, which would inevitably result in our showing up sweating and panting for breath twenty minutes late.
I’ve learned that showing up late has lots of advantages. I rarely end up waiting in line anymore. Sometimes I even get discounts for purchasing things at the last moment, like airline tickets and hotel rooms. Last week, a theatre manager even gave me a pro-bono movie viewing because the movie had already started. Better yet, I virtually miss all of the pre-game T-ball drama for my son’s team! Showing up late to social events has been a dream; I don’t have to deal with awkward small-talk nearly as often, and don’t get asked to help set things up or volunteer for the next event anymore. Moreover, I get to make an entrance and show off my fabulous shoe wear, which otherwise might have gone unnoticed had I arrived as part of the gaggle of on-timers.
You may like to try lateness for yourself. If you are new to lateness, you may find yourself anxious at first. This is normal, especially if you come from an anal-retentive family or rub elbows with type-A personalities. You just have to muscle your way past the anxiety. It may help if you get yourself ready on time and then lounge in a chair. Maybe read for twenty minutes. Listen to some music. If you can avoid watching the clock, do. If not, resolve yourself to watching the clock while doing something pleasant, like talking on the phone to a good friend or surfing the net for shoe wear. (http://www.zappos.com/. You won’t regret it.) Maybe make yourself something to eat, rather than rushing through the drive-thru at a fast food restaurant. Perhaps meditate. The important thing is to ease oneself into lateness. If you go too quickly, you’ll end up driving erratically and showing up frazzled and panting for breath at your destination (as I used to at pediatrician appointments). Best to go slow and pace yourself. Don’t even try to get to your destination on time. Drive slow. Look at the scenery. Surf the radio for good music.
Soon enough, people will adjust to your new schedule and make allowances for you. They will start telling you that events start a half hour before they actually begin in an effort to get you there on time and rope you into helping set up or pressure you into hosting the next event. (This is why people are asked to show up earlier and earlier for airline flights. I am constantly amazed that people actually DO show up two hours before the flight is scheduled to depart. First, flights rarely, if ever, depart on time. Second, people who show up early must have nothing good to do. I’d rather float around the hotel pool for an extra half hour than spend it waiting for my delayed flight in a hard plastic chair next to the departure gate.) When this occurs, you will have to step up your lateness regime. Move your lateness schedule forward another twenty minutes. You can’t let those on-timers manipulate you like that. Why, there have even been times when I’ve been forced to move up my lateness schedule a whole hour. I get a good nap on those days.
You may feel compelled to explain your lateness when arriving at your destination. Don’t. Just wave it off. That’s just guilt trying to rope you back into being on-time. If you listen to that guilt, you’ll just end up waiting in lines all over again. If you must say something, a simple, “I got caught up in something and was running late,” will suffice. You don’t have to explain that you got caught up shoe shopping or floating around the pool. If you do that, everyone will want to show up late and then you’ll have to push back your lateness schedule even further to avoid the on-time drudgery.
Try lateness for your next appointment. You won’t be disappointed.
(for Lauren)
I vaguely remember showing up to places on time in my youth. The marching band I was in during high school required that I be present early, not on time. “Early is on time; on time is late” was the phrase I think the director intoned. He hardly ever screamed in my direction over lateness (though he did for lots of other things), so it stands to reason that I got there within the window of acceptability.
Since that time, however, I have lost my drive for perfection in the “on time” realm. I think the change happened with the birth of my children. No matter how hard I tried, I could never be anywhere close to on time with my kids. Let’s say we had a 10 am pediatrician appointment. I would start our morning ritual at 6 am, giving us lots of flex time, only to have some vomiting/poop/pee pee/Mommy-I-can’t-find-my…./some sort of discomfort emergency halt my forward progress at the worst possible moment, which would inevitably result in our showing up sweating and panting for breath twenty minutes late.
I’ve learned that showing up late has lots of advantages. I rarely end up waiting in line anymore. Sometimes I even get discounts for purchasing things at the last moment, like airline tickets and hotel rooms. Last week, a theatre manager even gave me a pro-bono movie viewing because the movie had already started. Better yet, I virtually miss all of the pre-game T-ball drama for my son’s team! Showing up late to social events has been a dream; I don’t have to deal with awkward small-talk nearly as often, and don’t get asked to help set things up or volunteer for the next event anymore. Moreover, I get to make an entrance and show off my fabulous shoe wear, which otherwise might have gone unnoticed had I arrived as part of the gaggle of on-timers.
You may like to try lateness for yourself. If you are new to lateness, you may find yourself anxious at first. This is normal, especially if you come from an anal-retentive family or rub elbows with type-A personalities. You just have to muscle your way past the anxiety. It may help if you get yourself ready on time and then lounge in a chair. Maybe read for twenty minutes. Listen to some music. If you can avoid watching the clock, do. If not, resolve yourself to watching the clock while doing something pleasant, like talking on the phone to a good friend or surfing the net for shoe wear. (http://www.zappos.com/. You won’t regret it.) Maybe make yourself something to eat, rather than rushing through the drive-thru at a fast food restaurant. Perhaps meditate. The important thing is to ease oneself into lateness. If you go too quickly, you’ll end up driving erratically and showing up frazzled and panting for breath at your destination (as I used to at pediatrician appointments). Best to go slow and pace yourself. Don’t even try to get to your destination on time. Drive slow. Look at the scenery. Surf the radio for good music.
Soon enough, people will adjust to your new schedule and make allowances for you. They will start telling you that events start a half hour before they actually begin in an effort to get you there on time and rope you into helping set up or pressure you into hosting the next event. (This is why people are asked to show up earlier and earlier for airline flights. I am constantly amazed that people actually DO show up two hours before the flight is scheduled to depart. First, flights rarely, if ever, depart on time. Second, people who show up early must have nothing good to do. I’d rather float around the hotel pool for an extra half hour than spend it waiting for my delayed flight in a hard plastic chair next to the departure gate.) When this occurs, you will have to step up your lateness regime. Move your lateness schedule forward another twenty minutes. You can’t let those on-timers manipulate you like that. Why, there have even been times when I’ve been forced to move up my lateness schedule a whole hour. I get a good nap on those days.
You may feel compelled to explain your lateness when arriving at your destination. Don’t. Just wave it off. That’s just guilt trying to rope you back into being on-time. If you listen to that guilt, you’ll just end up waiting in lines all over again. If you must say something, a simple, “I got caught up in something and was running late,” will suffice. You don’t have to explain that you got caught up shoe shopping or floating around the pool. If you do that, everyone will want to show up late and then you’ll have to push back your lateness schedule even further to avoid the on-time drudgery.
Try lateness for your next appointment. You won’t be disappointed.
(for Lauren)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Strollers. Suck.
Here’s why: Some freak decided strollers should mirror the pre-gas crisis SUV’s (the really, really big ones), and loaded up strollers with all sorts of extras. Extras no rational human should ever need. For example, no stroller should need four cup holders, a GPS system, off road wheels, airbags, and a compass. If you find yourself seriously contemplating these stroller options, let me remind you that you have an INFANT. Infants should not be hauled via stroller into the tundra. Remember Meryl Streep’s plaintive cry, “The dingo ate my baby!” She probably had a tripped out stroller, and look what happened to her.
The problem with these stroller extras is that they add weight and bulk. For someone who is…muscularly challenged, shall we say (I’m a wimp. I can admit it. Don’t judge me.)…these pimped out strollers are beyond one’s ability to maneuver into and out of a vehicle. Okay, one CAN get these beasts in and out of a car, but moving them usually results in pain to some area of the body. Bruises, broken nails, smashed shins are the norm.
Why do we keep using these monstrosities? Simple. We don’t know any better when we are with child and register for strollers similar to what our friends have. Our “friends” don’t mention that their Peg Perego, Evenflow, or Graco weighs a thousand pounds because they don’t want to be the only parent suffering from bruises, broken nails, and smashed shins. (Misery loves company.) Once we are the owners of these heavy, hulking masses of reinforced steel, off road tires, and all-weather nylon, we are too embarrassed to tell the giver of the expensive stroller that their generous gift is impractical for hauling around an infant weighing approximately six pounds. Further, as parents we associate bigger and accessory-laden with safer. We want our children to be safe, so we try to buy the stroller equivalent of the Pope’s bubble car without considering the fact that we rarely, if ever, stroll with our infants through dangerous areas—and if we did, heavy strollers would just slow us down and make us easy targets.
Fact: sleep deprived new mothers rarely do anything more than go to the grocery store. You can find these baggy-eyed wraiths haunting the diaper aisle, barely conscious, virtually asleep on their feet. Even if luck and genetics is on the mother’s side and she ends up bouncing back from her delivery with barely a hiccup to find that her infant sleeps through the night starting the very first week (which is probably what happens to Angelina Jolie because she gets everything else…not that I’m bitter), it will be rare that she takes her tiny bundle of DNA on more than a slow saunter around the zoo. Tripped out strollers, even at the zoo, are not necessary. First, most zoos even rent special strollers on site. Second, in the event of an escaped tiger, a bulky stroller would simulate a wounded gazelle, and then where will you be? Right back to “the dingo ate my baby,” that’s where. Clearly, big strollers are liabilities on all fronts.
I struggled with my gargantuan Range Rover of strollers through two children. Then, last week, I lost it. Not the stroller, my patience. I’d received one bruise too many and had an apoplectic fit in the parking lot of Target. That’s when I stalked into Target and bought a cheap-o umbrella stroller. No frills. Just a seat. Weighs about 3 pounds. I could bench press this thing using just my pinkies. Hands down, this is the best sixteen dollar purchase ever.
If you ever hear of a dingo escaped from a zoo located in a dangerous area, that woman with the small stroller running in front of all the bulky stroller moms? That’s me.
The problem with these stroller extras is that they add weight and bulk. For someone who is…muscularly challenged, shall we say (I’m a wimp. I can admit it. Don’t judge me.)…these pimped out strollers are beyond one’s ability to maneuver into and out of a vehicle. Okay, one CAN get these beasts in and out of a car, but moving them usually results in pain to some area of the body. Bruises, broken nails, smashed shins are the norm.
Why do we keep using these monstrosities? Simple. We don’t know any better when we are with child and register for strollers similar to what our friends have. Our “friends” don’t mention that their Peg Perego, Evenflow, or Graco weighs a thousand pounds because they don’t want to be the only parent suffering from bruises, broken nails, and smashed shins. (Misery loves company.) Once we are the owners of these heavy, hulking masses of reinforced steel, off road tires, and all-weather nylon, we are too embarrassed to tell the giver of the expensive stroller that their generous gift is impractical for hauling around an infant weighing approximately six pounds. Further, as parents we associate bigger and accessory-laden with safer. We want our children to be safe, so we try to buy the stroller equivalent of the Pope’s bubble car without considering the fact that we rarely, if ever, stroll with our infants through dangerous areas—and if we did, heavy strollers would just slow us down and make us easy targets.
Fact: sleep deprived new mothers rarely do anything more than go to the grocery store. You can find these baggy-eyed wraiths haunting the diaper aisle, barely conscious, virtually asleep on their feet. Even if luck and genetics is on the mother’s side and she ends up bouncing back from her delivery with barely a hiccup to find that her infant sleeps through the night starting the very first week (which is probably what happens to Angelina Jolie because she gets everything else…not that I’m bitter), it will be rare that she takes her tiny bundle of DNA on more than a slow saunter around the zoo. Tripped out strollers, even at the zoo, are not necessary. First, most zoos even rent special strollers on site. Second, in the event of an escaped tiger, a bulky stroller would simulate a wounded gazelle, and then where will you be? Right back to “the dingo ate my baby,” that’s where. Clearly, big strollers are liabilities on all fronts.
I struggled with my gargantuan Range Rover of strollers through two children. Then, last week, I lost it. Not the stroller, my patience. I’d received one bruise too many and had an apoplectic fit in the parking lot of Target. That’s when I stalked into Target and bought a cheap-o umbrella stroller. No frills. Just a seat. Weighs about 3 pounds. I could bench press this thing using just my pinkies. Hands down, this is the best sixteen dollar purchase ever.
If you ever hear of a dingo escaped from a zoo located in a dangerous area, that woman with the small stroller running in front of all the bulky stroller moms? That’s me.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
What Do YOU Want?
Hey, as long as we're looking for Universal assistance in the Race for the Congo, why don't you contribute what you'd like the Universe to help YOU achieve.
Laugh if you will, but my friend Kristy SWEARS by this! I was skeptical at first, but when Kristy told me she was going to ask the Universe to bring her an offer to act in a film and she got a film offer within four days, I must say I was a bit swayed. She hadn't even auditioned for the film.
All you have to do is throw out your request. We'll see how long it takes. Consider this an experiment. You've got nothing to lose, right? You can post anonymously if you'd like. Just get the thought out there.
Universe, I'd really like... _____(fill in the blank)_______.
Laugh if you will, but my friend Kristy SWEARS by this! I was skeptical at first, but when Kristy told me she was going to ask the Universe to bring her an offer to act in a film and she got a film offer within four days, I must say I was a bit swayed. She hadn't even auditioned for the film.
All you have to do is throw out your request. We'll see how long it takes. Consider this an experiment. You've got nothing to lose, right? You can post anonymously if you'd like. Just get the thought out there.
Universe, I'd really like... _____(fill in the blank)_______.
Deep, Deep Within the Barbaric Congo...
...is someone with an internet connection who, I hope, is looking at my blog....
For some reason, I keep making all of these references to Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which describes a man's journey along the Congo River. However, I don't have any red dots in Africa on my clustermap. Africa is a big continent. It stands to reason that SOMEONE must know SOMEONE who knows SOMEONE in Africa. Would you mind forwarding on pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com until I get a dot on Africa? I'd be much obliged.
I know Africa seems like a tall order, but we got Italy in less than twenty-four hours. Clearly, the Universe is totally on our side!
This begins DAY ONE of RACE FOR THE CONGO!
For some reason, I keep making all of these references to Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which describes a man's journey along the Congo River. However, I don't have any red dots in Africa on my clustermap. Africa is a big continent. It stands to reason that SOMEONE must know SOMEONE who knows SOMEONE in Africa. Would you mind forwarding on pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com until I get a dot on Africa? I'd be much obliged.
I know Africa seems like a tall order, but we got Italy in less than twenty-four hours. Clearly, the Universe is totally on our side!
This begins DAY ONE of RACE FOR THE CONGO!
Apocalypse 2008
“A slice of hell.”
These are the words my sister-in-law and brother-in-law used to describe their camping experience. I feel too bad for them to mention that we all predicted this catastrophe long before the camper’s wheels touched highway concrete, so I won’t. I mean, hey, even I tried camping once. Just once.
Among the items lost on the trip:
One CD and CD player. (These belonged to my youngest nephew. He proudly made these purchases less than twenty-four hours prior to their loss with his own funds. The CD and CD player were dropped on the way back to the car after a fireworks display. The darkness and thousands of spectators prevented him from locating the lost items. Many tears were shed, which I can totally appreciate. For my youngest nephew, this is comparable to when my PARKED car was hit less than twenty-four hours after I drove it off the lot. I feel your pain, little man.)
24 hours. (This is how long the skies POURED on the camper, necessitating a family of four huddling inside something roughly the size of a broom closet.)
Michelle’s sanity. (The entire family, Michelle included, testifies to her break from reality the morning after being trapped in the camper for an entire day during a near-cyclone. )
Three hours. (This is the time it took them to prepare to go to the beach, leave their campsite, drive to the beach, search for a parking spot on the busiest 4th of July beach-going day in the history of 4th of July’s, circle around and around the beach parking lots, eventually give up, and return to the camper hot and parched.)
Hemoglobin. (Mutant Michigan Mosquitoes descended upon Michelle, et al. The entire family now looks strangely pale, like a gaggle of vampires nearly sucked them dry, which is essentially what happens when one is accosted by mutant Michigan mosquitoes.)
Pride. (When one is forced to use the night woods as a lavatory and pee by the light of one’s headlights, I think it is safe to say that one’s pride goes MIA.)
I think Michelle may need a little cheering up. Frothy, fruity drinks with miniature umbrellas may be in order until her shock over the entire camping catastrophe wears off. After all, what are sisters-in-law for if not to liberate you through libation after a particularly nasty brush with the great outdoors?
In the meantime, we may as well start praying for my dear friend Lauren. Lauren decided at the last minute to pack up her 5 year old, 2 year old, and mother and DRIVE to New Orleans to visit a friend.
Drive.
With her mother, with whom she argues on even the good days.
And two children under six.
For TWO SOLID DAYS.
During what is arguably one of the hottest months of the year.
Is it just me, or does this sound like the premise of a Tennessee Williams play??
Again, I better keep the cell on the nightstand. No good can come from this. Somehow I just know she’ll be calling….
These are the words my sister-in-law and brother-in-law used to describe their camping experience. I feel too bad for them to mention that we all predicted this catastrophe long before the camper’s wheels touched highway concrete, so I won’t. I mean, hey, even I tried camping once. Just once.
Among the items lost on the trip:
One CD and CD player. (These belonged to my youngest nephew. He proudly made these purchases less than twenty-four hours prior to their loss with his own funds. The CD and CD player were dropped on the way back to the car after a fireworks display. The darkness and thousands of spectators prevented him from locating the lost items. Many tears were shed, which I can totally appreciate. For my youngest nephew, this is comparable to when my PARKED car was hit less than twenty-four hours after I drove it off the lot. I feel your pain, little man.)
24 hours. (This is how long the skies POURED on the camper, necessitating a family of four huddling inside something roughly the size of a broom closet.)
Michelle’s sanity. (The entire family, Michelle included, testifies to her break from reality the morning after being trapped in the camper for an entire day during a near-cyclone. )
Three hours. (This is the time it took them to prepare to go to the beach, leave their campsite, drive to the beach, search for a parking spot on the busiest 4th of July beach-going day in the history of 4th of July’s, circle around and around the beach parking lots, eventually give up, and return to the camper hot and parched.)
Hemoglobin. (Mutant Michigan Mosquitoes descended upon Michelle, et al. The entire family now looks strangely pale, like a gaggle of vampires nearly sucked them dry, which is essentially what happens when one is accosted by mutant Michigan mosquitoes.)
Pride. (When one is forced to use the night woods as a lavatory and pee by the light of one’s headlights, I think it is safe to say that one’s pride goes MIA.)
I think Michelle may need a little cheering up. Frothy, fruity drinks with miniature umbrellas may be in order until her shock over the entire camping catastrophe wears off. After all, what are sisters-in-law for if not to liberate you through libation after a particularly nasty brush with the great outdoors?
In the meantime, we may as well start praying for my dear friend Lauren. Lauren decided at the last minute to pack up her 5 year old, 2 year old, and mother and DRIVE to New Orleans to visit a friend.
Drive.
With her mother, with whom she argues on even the good days.
And two children under six.
For TWO SOLID DAYS.
During what is arguably one of the hottest months of the year.
Is it just me, or does this sound like the premise of a Tennessee Williams play??
Again, I better keep the cell on the nightstand. No good can come from this. Somehow I just know she’ll be calling….
Sunday, July 13, 2008
More Languishing
Window replacement estimate #2 was $5500-7500! At this rate, I won't be able to buy shoes for the rest of this decade and a good bit of the next. Not to mention that I was planning to start a Botox/chemical peel fund in case of emergency! Now it will all have to go to window replacement.
Oh, the languishing.... I may have to take to my bed.
Is it too much to ask the Universe to buy me a cool new bay window? I don't think so. What do you think, Universe? You in? Marvin or Jeld-Wen would be nice, please. While I'm at it, a cosmetic dermatologist on retainer would be a nice addition, too.
Oh, the languishing.... I may have to take to my bed.
Is it too much to ask the Universe to buy me a cool new bay window? I don't think so. What do you think, Universe? You in? Marvin or Jeld-Wen would be nice, please. While I'm at it, a cosmetic dermatologist on retainer would be a nice addition, too.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Got Bugs??
There’s nothing like an insect infestation to remind you of your LAST insect infestation.
Before I reveal to you my current source of alarm, let me take you back…back…back --to one year ago when I was very, very pregnant and in the midst of a similar crisis.
At the same time that my waist line and hormonal levels were careening out of control, my life was also spinning out of its normal orbit. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #1: At the exact moment when your body and mind are at their most limited, the universe throws you a curve ball just to shake you up and make sure you’re paying attention.) It was a rainy morning in my eighth month when I blearily stumbled into the living room and defied many laws of physics in order to ease my bloated body down onto the couch. My husband was on his laptop, checking his agenda for the day. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #2: Your husband, just by existing on the planet, will drive you nuts. This is probably due to hormonal fluctuations. Knowing this, however, will not help you deal with your annoyance. The way he breathes, eats soup, and clips his toe nails will leave you wondering what you were thinking when you said, “I do.”) I watched him furrow his brow as he read through an email, bitterly envying his ability to drink caffeinated beverages and eat yummy processed foods with lots of preservatives, when I noticed a strange sound.
“Hey. What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” He didn’t even look up, so absorbed was he in whatever computer-y thing that he does for a living.
“That crunchy noise.” I heaved my bulk off the couch and followed the sound toward the corner. “It’s coming from over here.” I pointed to the wall. “Come listen.”
Scott sighed and obligingly did as I asked.
“Weird. Sounds like paper crunching. Or maybe water? Maybe it’s water sliding down the siding outside?” Scott shrugged.
“I’ve never heard that noise before when it’s rained….” I thumped the wall with my fist. Was it my imagination or did the noise intensify a little? “Maybe you should go outside and take a look,” I suggested. I was guzzling an entire container of orange juice, trying to pretend it was coffee, when the side door slammed open and Scott rushed into the house.
“What’s the matter?” The look on Scott’s face made me put down the carton.
“There are bees flying into a crack between the siding and a window. They are in the wall. That’s the crunchy noise. Bees.”
“SHUT UP!”
“I wish I were lying.”
“What are we going to do? Burn the house down? Move? Wait--is bee infestation something we need to declare we know about if we list the house for sale?”
“Probably. Look, we need to call a pest control service. I’m running late for work. Can you call them?”
“You mean you are going to leave your eight month pregnant wife and your unborn child alone in a house infested with bees??”
“I thought I would, yes.” So much for chivalry. Scott has lived for years under the deluded notion that I am capable and competent, despite my protests that I am the fragile flower type of southern belle in constant need of rescue. He continually leaves me languishing in distress, airily calling over his shoulder, “I know you can handle this. Have a great day!” Trust me when I say that there is nothing more annoying than being told to have a great day while one is languishing. And if one is pregnant and languishing, the annoyance is easily three-fold. I am fairly certain I said something nasty under my breath as he left for work, possibly questioning whether his parents had actually been married at the time of his birth.
For the past few years there has been a marketing campaign by a national pest control service involving commercials featuring a good-natured, calm, extremely knowledgeable pest control technician answering trivia questions posed to him by frantically concerned customers. I would mention the name of said company, but I don’t want to be sued. That was the company I called.
Suffice it to say that Well Known Pest Control Company (WKPCC) did not exactly fill me with confidence in their pest removal abilities. Candy, the one who answered the phone, repeatedly said things like, “Ewwwww!” and “Gross!” when I described my bee problem. Then, she sent a knight in shining yellow overalls who claimed to have once been a marine, but he screamed like a girl and swatted the air whenever a bee came in his general direction. The bees were eventually removed, but I think it was more a matter of divine intervention than aptitude on the part of WKPCC.
That’s why when I found what appeared to be termites in our bay window last week, I fell straight to languishing. I mean, if WKPCC’s ex-marine went into hysterics over bees, he’d probably have a full blown panic attack when encountering termites, and I just didn’t feel up to dealing with his post-traumatic stress while taking care of my infant.
Sadly, Scott’s complete disregard for my suffering has a tendency to cut into my languishing time, which forces me to move straight to getting down to business. (I have a hunch this isn’t completely coincidental on his part.) That is why I bypassed WKPCC and called my book club buddy’s family’s pest control service. Best. Move. Ever.
International Exterminators of Elk Grove Village, Illinois (847.439.4488) not only didn’t squeal in disgust when I called, they actually dispelled my fears immediately by informing me that the insects I described were not termites at all, but flying ants! Further, they requested that I give my pediatrician a call and get his okay on the type of pesticide to use around my children. How professional is that?? No screaming ex-marines. Just calm, quiet pest removal. Brilliant. If you are in the Chicago area, I highly, highly recommend International Exterminators.
Of course, the deteriorating bay window due to wood rot, not termites, still needs to be replaced and my first estimate was $5000-6500. I will be languishing over that while Scott ignores my drama for the next few days. Anyone know a good window company?
Before I reveal to you my current source of alarm, let me take you back…back…back --to one year ago when I was very, very pregnant and in the midst of a similar crisis.
At the same time that my waist line and hormonal levels were careening out of control, my life was also spinning out of its normal orbit. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #1: At the exact moment when your body and mind are at their most limited, the universe throws you a curve ball just to shake you up and make sure you’re paying attention.) It was a rainy morning in my eighth month when I blearily stumbled into the living room and defied many laws of physics in order to ease my bloated body down onto the couch. My husband was on his laptop, checking his agenda for the day. (Murphy’s Law of Pregnancy #2: Your husband, just by existing on the planet, will drive you nuts. This is probably due to hormonal fluctuations. Knowing this, however, will not help you deal with your annoyance. The way he breathes, eats soup, and clips his toe nails will leave you wondering what you were thinking when you said, “I do.”) I watched him furrow his brow as he read through an email, bitterly envying his ability to drink caffeinated beverages and eat yummy processed foods with lots of preservatives, when I noticed a strange sound.
“Hey. What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” He didn’t even look up, so absorbed was he in whatever computer-y thing that he does for a living.
“That crunchy noise.” I heaved my bulk off the couch and followed the sound toward the corner. “It’s coming from over here.” I pointed to the wall. “Come listen.”
Scott sighed and obligingly did as I asked.
“Weird. Sounds like paper crunching. Or maybe water? Maybe it’s water sliding down the siding outside?” Scott shrugged.
“I’ve never heard that noise before when it’s rained….” I thumped the wall with my fist. Was it my imagination or did the noise intensify a little? “Maybe you should go outside and take a look,” I suggested. I was guzzling an entire container of orange juice, trying to pretend it was coffee, when the side door slammed open and Scott rushed into the house.
“What’s the matter?” The look on Scott’s face made me put down the carton.
“There are bees flying into a crack between the siding and a window. They are in the wall. That’s the crunchy noise. Bees.”
“SHUT UP!”
“I wish I were lying.”
“What are we going to do? Burn the house down? Move? Wait--is bee infestation something we need to declare we know about if we list the house for sale?”
“Probably. Look, we need to call a pest control service. I’m running late for work. Can you call them?”
“You mean you are going to leave your eight month pregnant wife and your unborn child alone in a house infested with bees??”
“I thought I would, yes.” So much for chivalry. Scott has lived for years under the deluded notion that I am capable and competent, despite my protests that I am the fragile flower type of southern belle in constant need of rescue. He continually leaves me languishing in distress, airily calling over his shoulder, “I know you can handle this. Have a great day!” Trust me when I say that there is nothing more annoying than being told to have a great day while one is languishing. And if one is pregnant and languishing, the annoyance is easily three-fold. I am fairly certain I said something nasty under my breath as he left for work, possibly questioning whether his parents had actually been married at the time of his birth.
For the past few years there has been a marketing campaign by a national pest control service involving commercials featuring a good-natured, calm, extremely knowledgeable pest control technician answering trivia questions posed to him by frantically concerned customers. I would mention the name of said company, but I don’t want to be sued. That was the company I called.
Suffice it to say that Well Known Pest Control Company (WKPCC) did not exactly fill me with confidence in their pest removal abilities. Candy, the one who answered the phone, repeatedly said things like, “Ewwwww!” and “Gross!” when I described my bee problem. Then, she sent a knight in shining yellow overalls who claimed to have once been a marine, but he screamed like a girl and swatted the air whenever a bee came in his general direction. The bees were eventually removed, but I think it was more a matter of divine intervention than aptitude on the part of WKPCC.
That’s why when I found what appeared to be termites in our bay window last week, I fell straight to languishing. I mean, if WKPCC’s ex-marine went into hysterics over bees, he’d probably have a full blown panic attack when encountering termites, and I just didn’t feel up to dealing with his post-traumatic stress while taking care of my infant.
Sadly, Scott’s complete disregard for my suffering has a tendency to cut into my languishing time, which forces me to move straight to getting down to business. (I have a hunch this isn’t completely coincidental on his part.) That is why I bypassed WKPCC and called my book club buddy’s family’s pest control service. Best. Move. Ever.
International Exterminators of Elk Grove Village, Illinois (847.439.4488) not only didn’t squeal in disgust when I called, they actually dispelled my fears immediately by informing me that the insects I described were not termites at all, but flying ants! Further, they requested that I give my pediatrician a call and get his okay on the type of pesticide to use around my children. How professional is that?? No screaming ex-marines. Just calm, quiet pest removal. Brilliant. If you are in the Chicago area, I highly, highly recommend International Exterminators.
Of course, the deteriorating bay window due to wood rot, not termites, still needs to be replaced and my first estimate was $5000-6500. I will be languishing over that while Scott ignores my drama for the next few days. Anyone know a good window company?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Oh, No, She Di' int!
My dear, dear, dear friend Kuj (the one who vociferously called me out as a Catholic when I accidentally threw the offering basket in the middle of a Lutheran service—see the mid-June post “Offering. Basket.”) got a red dot on Hawaii. This means someone in the Hawaiian Islands has looked at her blog and a red dot has appeared on her Cluster Map. She is taunting me with this. Giving me a blog-razzberry, if you will. If we were drunken frat brothers standing before a metaphorical urinal, Kuj would point, laugh, and say hers is bigger than mine. Then, she’d probably very loudly tell the other frat brothers that I’m Catholic.
In short, Kuj has thrown a Cluster Map gauntlet, and she wants me to pick it up.
Now, I could get all medieval about this. I could stew over my “teeny weeny” Cluster Map; perhaps let the competitive bug bite me and rev myself up into a tizzy of international blog advertising. I could defensively point out my own cool Cluster Map dots. I could get on the horn, randomly call Hawaiian Hotels (I mean, they have 800-numbers. Might as well save on those long distance rates, eh?), and falsely tell the reservationist that my travel schedule is located on my blog, hoping to get a few hits. Oooh—better! I could run naked through a sports event carrying a banner reading: pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com! After all, remember how much press that Janet Jackson nipple baring at the Super Bowl wrought? My lily white apple-heiny has to be worth at least a quarter of that air time. (Besides, I have an odd looking mole on the left cheek, which is sure to garner me some TiVo playback.)
But, my mole is safe. (Not to mention the peaceful sleep of tens upon tens of 4-5 year old T-Ballers because that’s the only sports event I regularly attend.) I will leave the gauntlet tickling my tootsies. There are three reasons for this:
In short, Kuj has thrown a Cluster Map gauntlet, and she wants me to pick it up.
Now, I could get all medieval about this. I could stew over my “teeny weeny” Cluster Map; perhaps let the competitive bug bite me and rev myself up into a tizzy of international blog advertising. I could defensively point out my own cool Cluster Map dots. I could get on the horn, randomly call Hawaiian Hotels (I mean, they have 800-numbers. Might as well save on those long distance rates, eh?), and falsely tell the reservationist that my travel schedule is located on my blog, hoping to get a few hits. Oooh—better! I could run naked through a sports event carrying a banner reading: pacifiersandprada.blogspot.com! After all, remember how much press that Janet Jackson nipple baring at the Super Bowl wrought? My lily white apple-heiny has to be worth at least a quarter of that air time. (Besides, I have an odd looking mole on the left cheek, which is sure to garner me some TiVo playback.)
But, my mole is safe. (Not to mention the peaceful sleep of tens upon tens of 4-5 year old T-Ballers because that’s the only sports event I regularly attend.) I will leave the gauntlet tickling my tootsies. There are three reasons for this:
- The March 29th post entitled “The Six Degrees of Un-Separation” detailed my conviction that the universe will bring me red dots in every state and country because I didn’t get to go on a spring break vacation and won’t be able to go on a summer vacation. I believe in you, Universe. I won’t let a little gauntlet throwing shake my belief that I can virtually see the world from my laptop.
- I have recently begun reading a book about how the ego/rivalry is the root of most conflicts. It’s ruined me for competitive sports and gauntlet throwing.
- Kuj left a BIG pile of books here the last time she visited, and no matter how much she mocks me, I will STILL have ALL of her books. And she wants them. Badly. Heh, heh, heh. (She laughed maniacally, dangling a Ray Bradbury over a pot of boiling water while her left eye twitches uncontrollably.)
Thus, I will turn the other cheek (The one without the oddly shaped mole.), and I will leave the gauntlet thrown. So, mock me if you will, Kuj. I can take it. The same way I took your Way of the Samurai, The 100 People Who Have Screwed Up America, and The Sex Lives of Cannibals. Mu-wah-ha-ha!!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Give Me the Boot, Will 'Ya??
I just checked my blog map (right hand side and down a tiny bit with little red dots all over it). I don't have any dots in Italy. This is outrageous. I am part Italian. I LOVE eggplant parmesan. Know anyone in Italy you can make look at my blog one time?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
