Ramblings that became papers... Part Two

Here's another one of my papers for y'all.  This one was a comparison/contrast essay that I put together after going through one of my typical afternoons where I couldn't decide if it was the cats or the kids that was driving me crazier.

Enjoy!

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          Have you ever seen someone in charge of a group of children become overwhelmed with the situation and throw their hands up in the air as an exasperated, “It’s like herding cats!” escapes their lips? 

          As a person who has raised both children and cats with varying degrees of success (depending on who you ask), I feel I can confidently say that there is definite merit to the above statement.  There is so much in common between the two such as the complete lack of concern over what the desired behavior actually is, the need to turn private time into a spectator sport, and the ability to somehow sound like a herd of elephants despite being a fraction of the required size.  Of course, there are also obvious differences like feeding, bathing, and how to keep them in one place.

          Take the need for good behavior and good manners.  Neither small children nor cats care one iota about how their behavior reflects on the adult in the situation as long as they are enjoying the moment in their own fashion.  For children, this typically manifests as giggle fits and running in erratic circles around the area while the parent frantically tries to corral them in a dignified manner before resorting to tripping someone.  For cats, this often plays out in what should probably be hysterical antics when something that has just been forbidden from the feline is stolen anyway and gets batted around the house for quite some time while a human follows in zigzags, making vain grabs for the item in question and demanding the animal stop the game and return the possession immediately as if actually expecting this to happen.

          Next is the ever-popular Olympic sport waiting to happen “peeing before someone or something forces their way into the bathroom”.  This one is fairly self-explanatory.  There isn’t a parent alive that hasn’t found themselves in the unenviable position of being trapped on that throne with at least one child or cat planted squarely in front of them critiquing the entire process.  If the door somehow gets locked before the invasion occurs, there will be fingers or paws (or in my case, both) stuck under the door repeatedly until the event comes to its conclusion.  Sometimes there is musical accompaniment if the doorstop is found.

          Then there’s the ability of a creature that weighs anywhere between ten pounds and a hundred pounds making adults everywhere suddenly question the structural integrity of their homes just by moving rapidly from one location to another.  If there are stairs involved, there is real danger of home décor randomly leaping off the walls and shelving.  If there are more than one of said creatures moving in tandem, chances are a local Richter Scale is alarming some poor soul tasked with monitoring geological threats.

          As mentioned earlier, there are some distinct differences between raising children and raising cats.  Meal time is one instance that springs to mind.  Feeding cats is a matter of shaking a food container and getting out of the way of the stampede no matter what is being offered as a meal.  For added entertainment, one may choose to hang around and watch as feline paws snake out and grab dishes belonging to other animals in attempts to garner larger portions.  Feeding children generally involves dragging reluctant bodies away from video games and television shows, shooting down arguments about why this child doesn’t want to eat that vegetable or why that child expects to have another meal prepared that is more to their tastes, followed by refereeing repeated attempts to sneak the healthy parts of entrees onto the other child’s plate while claiming to have finished everything themselves.

          Bathing techniques is another area that differs greatly between children and cats.  When cats are involved, the process is almost guaranteed to start and finish within five minutes.  The occupants of the home are informed that a feline needs a bath and the smart occupants quickly vacate the premises.  The cat is introduced to a couple of inches of water, much splashing and screaming ensues from all parties involved, the cat either escapes or the human restraining the cat decides personal preservation is more important than a clean feline, and bath time is ended.  When children are involved, the process is almost guaranteed to drag out over a few hours.  The occupants of the home are informed that a child needs a bath or shower and the child in question quickly goes into fits of denial.  Eventually the child is introduced to the combination of soap and water, much splashing and offkey singing ensues, the child runs out of soapy water or the house runs out of hot water, and bath time is ended.

          When one has had all they can take of children or cats running rampant throughout the vacinity, confining them to one area differs according to species as well.  There are a couple of techniques that work well for cats, ranging from using catnip as bait to get them into a room with a door that closes to picking them up by the scruff of their necks and dropping them unceremoniously into a sufficiently sized kennel.  Rather than using catnip, I have found that turning on electronics in an isolated location of the home is the method of choice for keeping children in one place for extended periods of time.

          So, as you can see, the phrase “like herding cats” is actually pretty accurate when applied to children.  Just remember, however, that while there are many similarities in how both are raised, society still tends to frown disapprovingly when children are shoved into kennels, no matter how much they may have earned it.

Ramblings that became papers... Part One

Just remember, y'all asked for this.  This particular assignment was to illustrate cause and effect.  We were instructed to choose a subject and describe how it affected something else, offering examples along the way.

Let's be real.  This is me we're talking about.  Give me the tiniest bit of wiggle room and something in my life is going to become fuel to make someone else giggle.  I'm told my instructor was thoroughly amused.

And we're off...

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          Children are wonderful, aren’t they?  They’re cute, funny, unpredictable, entertaining, and they can even be used as legal child labor at home, or as gophers when you just don’t feel like getting up to refill your glass during a television show.  However, they’re also to blame for a pandemic running rampant across the nation.  Children are, in my opinion, the reason adults all over the world are completely losing it.  Don’t believe me?  Let me explain.

          Before children came along, I had my future planned out in intricate detail.  I even had a schedule for when I would finish my schooling, when I would start my chosen career, when I would impress my bosses and get the big raise, when I would find Mr. Right and trick him into proposing to me, when we would buy our dream home, when we would hit the lottery and retire in luxury.  You get the idea.

          Now that I have children, there is no such thing as a schedule.  What we have instead is a list of activities that are planned as a family and devolve into frantic races to complete school science projects that are “forgotten about” until the night before they are due.  Our days can be set to the tune of “Flight of the Bumblebee” as alarm clocks go off at thoroughly indecent hours every morning and adults scramble to finish daily tasks before the children appear like miniature hurricanes and announce the need to attend dance classes, sports practices, scouting activities, church youth meetings, play dates, and the occasional school production.  Knowing about such things more than fifteen minutes in advance is apparently forbidden in the “Children’s Handbook of Life”.

          Before children came along, I was the proud owner of a substantial vocabulary that could be counted on to dazzle most of my friends as I articulated my thoughts in complete and precise sentences flowing with several syllable words guaranteed to make me sound like I held a doctorate in pretty much every field of study available.

          Now that I have children, managing to form and spit out a complete sentence is worthy of a victory dance.  My adult friends have running bets on how long I can go before announcing that I need to “go potty” or that something is “ucky”, which is now the technical term for something that is unpleasant to touch or smell.  Stuttering is now its own dialect which can be clearly understood by other adults who also have smaller versions of themselves running around.  The rate of the stutter and the volume of spittle escaping as we attempt to convey our thoughts is just the accent identifying the region in which we live.

          Before children came along, I could remember phone numbers from every home my family ever lived in.  I could recall the names of every person I’d ever called a friend, as well as their close relatives and pets.  I could read books once and vividly remember each and every plot twist months later when quizzed about them.  I could tell my parents every license plate they’d ever had registered to their vehicles throughout my childhood.  I could even recite the American presidents in order through Ronald Reagan.

          Now that I have children, I have to use a calculator to work out how old I am.  I enter a room and stare around in confusion as I rack my brain to figure out why I went into that room in the first place.  I have to cycle through the names of every child I’ve known, all of my siblings, and most family pets in the hopes of randomly shouting out the actual name of the child I’m attempting to discipline.  Once I manage to get the name right, it’s a complete toss up that I remember what I was yelling about to begin with.

          Before children came along, I was very aware of my physical appearance.  My hair needed to be just right and “fly aways” were captured and tamed with brutal efficiency.  My clothing choices were based on how well they flattered my eye color or accentuated curves without being flashy.  My nails had to be kept just the right length, shape, and color to catch the eye while not clashing with that day’s clothing color.  Shoe and clothing purchases were made often in order to keep up with current fads and the seasons.

          Now that I have children, my hairbrush gets to wave at my scalp in passing each morning before my hair gets shoved unceremoniously into a ponytail holder that may or may not be set at a haphazard angle on my head.  My outfits are thrown together purely on a “this was on the top of the pile” strategy that has so far miraculously avoided landing me on the “People of Walmart” website.  Shoe and clothing purchases are now made based on how well they hide mystery stains that always manage to appear on the way to important functions.  I wear an obnoxious amount of paisley and floral.

          Yes, children are definitely cute, funny, unpredictable, and highly entertaining.  But don’t let them fool you.  Their real purpose is to fulfill the age old Mother’s Curse we all laughed off and foolishly ignored when we heard it: “May your kids be JUST LIKE YOU!”  If we made our own parents completely nuts, it’s only logical that our children are going to have the same effect on us!

          Just remember, whenever you see a mom holding that sweet child in her arms and rocking gently back and forth in an absent-minded way, that’s just Mother Nature preparing us for the days when we’re found curled up in the fetal position rocking and humming to ourselves in terror because our grown children just promised to come back home… with grandchildren.

I'm so grateful to my husband

I know that seems like something every wife says, but days like today remind me just how true it is.
They also make me realize how many days like today I have.
And then I wonder why on God's green Earth Steve hasn't run away screaming yet.

I'm going to apologize in advance at this point.  If you're looking for giggles today, there probably won't be any in this post.

We hear all the survivor stories from people who suffer from chronic pain and who go through every moment of every day wondering how long it's going to be before the next spasm of agony hits.
~Will it happen out in public and make us cause a scene because well-meaning strangers don't understand what is going on and swarm us with every intention of wanting to help in any way possible?
~Will it be something that we can shrug off and smile through while trying our best to lie through our teeth and convince everyone that we're really fine and we just have a tendency to overreact, then look properly embarrassed when the inevitable chuckles and occasional dirty looks are cast our way as the crowd disperses?
~Will it be one of those horrible times where the pain is so intense that we just have to try to breathe through it and hope it goes away BEFORE someone panics and calls an ambulance because we can't explain that this just happens? (This is always an enjoyable experience, btw.)
~Will it happen in front of complete strangers who will forget about it ten minutes later or in front of acquaintances we see regularly who will forever look at us differently and, despite never meaning to, from that point on treat us like we are just a little bit less capable in their eyes than we were two minutes before they saw an "incident"?
~Will it be one of the horrible times when we're alone and it's so bad we can't move and we feel like all of our pain sensors are on overdrive, and we just have to hang on until someone who understands arrives?
~Will it be the last straw that makes the people we count on finally throw their hands up in the air and declare they just can't do this anymore?

At all times this diatribe is running over and over in the back of our minds.  Most of us don't even hear it anymore, but we still make every move, every daily plan, every choice based on what it has said to us for as long as we can remember.
We guard our actions to try to minimize the chance that we'll embarrass ourselves or those with us somehow.
We guard our feelings against those who don't understand and see only someone who is weak, or lazy, or a hypochondriac, or just good at making excuses.
Sometimes we get frustrated and try to overcompensate by doing basic, every day things that most people consider the bare bones of daily responsibilities... and when it hurts, we grit our teeth, shove through, and hide the pain in the hope that our support system doesn't find out and take on more work yet again.
And when we aren't at our best... all too often we get depressed, angry, sullen, and throw pity parties.

Yeah.  It's rough.  And you know what?  We'll live with it, ignore it as often as we can, and go through life smiling anyway because we don't have any other option.

But what about that support system I mentioned?  How often does anyone hear about how miserable things must get for them sometimes?  After all, they have all the same daily responsibilities as every other person out there.  Our daily responsibilities just become something they add into their lives without complaint because someone's gotta do it, right?

They have the option to walk away whenever it gets too hard and go live a normal life.
Yet they don't.

How many of us could do that?
"I'm gonna help out for a little while until it's someone else's turn to help because it's the right thing to do."  While that's extremely noble and pretty much everyone has stepped up to do this in some shape or form on a regular basis, that's not what I'm talking about here.
I'm talking about "I'm going to be here to help everyday, with everything, knowing that I'm probably giving up the chance to ever put myself first ever again, for what may very likely be the rest of my natural life."
Let's be honest here.  For most of us, this isn't even something we consider with our own children.  After eighteen years, our sentences are up and we expect to get our lives back!  (I said we expect to.  I never said that's what actually happens.) And I know I'm not the only parent who counts down the months to when I'm no longer legally obligated to not change the locks.

That's not the case for the people who step into the role of support to those of us who have come to rely on them.  What must their minds be playing through every day?
~Will I be able to get through a full work day without having to explain to my boss that I have to go to another doctor appointment?
~Will I be able to cheer her up again when the doctors can't promise solutions or even temporary relief?
~Will I be able to get a full night's sleep or will I be needed to help with her pain again?
~Will I be able to effectively do my job despite coping with more stress and less sleep than I should be, or will my boss think I'm slipping in my performance?
~Will I be able to talk her out of doing things that could hurt her when she feels like she has to prove she won't be held back by her body's limitations again?
~Will I be able to shield her from the embarrassment she always feels if there's an incident out in public again?
~Will I be able to sit through a television show or movie without having to get up to help her do something as simple as opening a window, or lifting a gallon of milk?
~Will I be able to reassure her that our friends don't think she's less of a person because she's going through this?
~Will I be able to reassure her that I don't think she's less of a person because she's going through this?
~Will I be able to hide my own aches and pains while trying to ease her aches and pains each day?
~Will I be able to smile through it when her pain and stress levels hit capacity and she unleashes all of her frustrations at the nearest target?
~Will I be able to reassure her that I truly don't blame her for the situation?

~What if I'm not there when she needs me?

How many people could truly go through this every single day and not be looking for the nearest escape hatch?  I don't think I could.

But Steve does.
And I have never heard him complain.
And I know how unbelievably lucky I am to have him in my life.

Which is why I will continue to do my absolute best every single day to not be a headache to Steve and my young children.
Because I know what they have to give up when it comes to extracuricular interests in order to be there just in case...
Because I know what they miss out on with friends in order to be there just in case...
Because I know what they have already told themselves they'll never get to do in order to be there just in case...
Because I want them to know how much I appreciate what they go through just by having to live with me everyday...

And because if they ever do get sick of all this and decide to run away
I don't stand a snowball's chance in Hell of chasing them down and dragging them kicking and screaming back in here.

Don't argue with a woman's shopping logic!!!

It's almost May.  Summer.  Hot weather.

Damn.  I have to shave my legs because long pants are starting to get .... icky.

I also discovered that I needed to buy some shorts because the last time someone coaxed me into wearing them was about ten years and thirty pounds ago.

I shop for clothing by myself.  Let's just say it's safer for everyone involved that way.  One trip into a dressing room is generally more than enough to induce a Jekyll and Hyde transformation.  I'm quite certain the reason I go into a dressing room with women in the stalls next to mine and come out to find myself completely alone has everything to do with the constant string of insults, complaints, and outright threats coming out of my stall.
Sooner or later I'm going to step out and find myself being stared down by a fully geared SWAT team, complete with riot masks and shields.

This is the conversation one can expect with a woman while shopping for clothing... especially warm weather clothing:

Woman: I tried on all of these and I'm getting THIS pair!
Companion: Those?  But they're hot pink.
Woman: That's okay.  They'll fade eventually.
Companion: These are more... traditional, though.
Woman: No. I'm getting these.
Companion: But I distinctly heard you gushing about how much you loved the way this denim pair looked on you.
Woman: I know.  They do look pretty good.  But I'm getting the hot pink ones.
Companion: And the pink ones are twice as expensive as the rest of them.
Woman: True.
Companion: And they have purple rhinestones on the pockets.
Woman: Again, true.
Companion: And they're button up.  With tassles on the buttons.
Woman: What's your point?
Companion: But I heard you tell your reflection that you would have to stab your eyes out after seeing yourself in these shorts!
Woman: I may have said that.
Companion: Then WHY are you getting these instead of the others that are prettier, more comfortable, half the price, and less likely to get you kidnapped by the local circus???
Woman:  Because in all those brands, the size is a 16.  In THIS brand, I'm a size 12!
Companion: .....

Companion: Is there another pair?

Family get togethers... At least they let us come back

I know it's been a few days since I last posted, but in my defense, I was actually out of town and out of stable internet range.  Honest!  I couldn't even use my phone to post a blog entry because my phone doesn't seem to be speaking to the account I need to log in with in order to access the admin side of things here.

We decided to head down to my sister's place to enjoy a family cookout, celebrate Easter (yes, a week late), and to just relax with some gaming time.

We got there late on Friday night since Steve has this irritating addiction to a paycheck that he only gets if he doesn't skip out of work every time I feel the urge to leave the state.  I'm currently working on getting him into a 12 step program for this addiction, but so far the only responses I've gotten to my inqueries have been along the lines of "What kind of medication are you supposed to be on and when did you stop taking it?"

It's only been a few weeks, but I'm a little fuzzy on what that has to do with anything.  And besides, I feel fine!

Anyway, we text my sister and her husband to let them know that we are about to show up at their door and they tell us they're in the middle of a gourmet meal at Burger King, which is about to close.
We're starving.
We drive faster.
We manage to pull into the parking lot and charge the door like a pack of hyenas before they can get the key turned in the door.
We descend on the counter and proceed to entertain the staff by having to describe the ingredients of each and every option on the menu to our children.
We tell the girl child she is NOT getting any milkshakes.
We explain to the boy child that McNuggets are NOT on this particular menu and do our best to avoid eye contact with the staff.
We attempt to narrow the selections down and make a choice of entrees.
We tell the girl child she is NOT getting cookies for dinner.
We tell the boy child that original recipe fried chicken is NOT on this particular menu and do our best to avoid eye contact with the staff.
We order one meal for Steve, onion rings for me, and a sweet tea for Heather.
We fail to catch the boy child before he requests some Chick-Fil-A sauce for me to dip my onion rings into.
We do our best to avoid eye contact with the staff.
My sister and brother-in-law are forced to admit they know us.
They may never be allowed in that establishment again.

Welcome to our family!

On a good note, my sister is actually considered normal by society's standards, so it's really just me that you have to be concerned about spending extended periods of time with before lasting damage is done.  And, to be honest, Steve's been around for 15 years without any obvious side effects...

...well...

...moving on...

You think I'm just singing up here. Bahahahaaaa!

This morning, Steve told me that last night's blog post didn't touch on my "proud moment" and he thought that was the whole point of me blogging again, so I'm going to see what I can do about correcting that tonight.

I'd stick my tongue out at Steve, but that never ends the way it plays out in my head...

As is quickly becoming common knowledge in my little circle of acquaintances, I am part of what our church calls the Praise and Worship Team. There are technically two or three dozen of us who have the intention of taking turns standing out on stage with individual mics either in front of the choir on Sunday mornings, or without the choir at all on Sunday and Wednesday nights.  However, life has this annoying tendency to throw barrels of monkeys with wrenches at pretty much every adult in existence and this typically results in lots of cancellations.  Since Steve works with the AV department every service we're in town, it's pretty certain that I'm going to be available to fill in as a substitute even when I'm not actually scheduled.  So I sing quite a bit.

Remember when I said that my confidence in my own abilities is somewhat lacking?  Yeah.

What the congregation sees each service:
~singers move onto the stage and mill around for a few minutes, putting their heads together with the musicians and worship leader to solidify plans before praying as a team and taking their places on stage
~music starts, songs are performed, everyone claps
~Pastor begins service while singers step back and wait for the offering to be called
~singers belt out another song while ushers collect the offering
~singers and musicians leave the stage and take their seats with everyone else in the congregation

Clockwork!

Want to know what is really going on, at least from my perspective?

I enter the building already comparing myself to everyone around me, wondering if what I chose to wear is good enough to be on stage in the first place.  Let's be serious here.  This is me we're talking about!  I got married in cowboy boots and jeans!!  When I already know I'm going to be singing, I do my best to dress like a lady and be feminine.  Which means I feel like I'm three and I just raided my grandmother's closet.  I have been told repeatedly by the other ladies in the choir to "stop fidgeting!" and to "quit tugging on your dress!"  The other ladies begin comparing shoes and complimenting everyone on such amazing taste in footwear.  I smile and pretend I picked out my own shoes. (Thank the Lord for salespeople who know how to match shoes to outfits, cuz I honestly see no reason why boots don't go with absolutely everything under the sun.)

Time for everyone to get into place.  I grab my mic, head up to my designated spot on the stage, and wait patiently for Steve and Jason to finish torturing us with the spotlights.

The music begins.

Wait!  What song is that??  That's not what I saw on the playlist!  Do I know the words to this one??  Oh yeah, now I remember this one.  Oh no!  What KEY is that??  I distinctly remember practicing this song in a different key!
Okay, now I got it.  This isn't so bad.  I've got my groove now.  Whoa... wobbled on these stupid heels again.  Maybe just standing in one place is a better idea.  I can be caught up in the spirit of the song.  Yeah. I'm feeling the atmosphere of the song, not afraid of faceplanting in front of God.  That's a good story.  I'll stick to that.

Hey, the worship leader changed the order of the lyrics!  Did the other singers know? Oh good, we all look like deer in headlights.  Maybe the congregation will think it's just part of the choreography.

Oh thank goodness we're almost done.  My feet are KILLING me!  Wait, not allowed to take the shoes off when I'm out here in front.  Okay, just rock back and forth really slowly and lift one foot, then the other.  That'll feel better.

Here comes Pastor.  Maybe he'll let us off stage early.  Nope.  Alrighty, just keep rocking. Just keep rocking. One foot up.  Note to self: never wear a pink dress; people will think you're a flamingo.  Other foot up now.

Why is Steve up in the AV room dancing with a big foam cowboy hat on his head?  Do NOT start giggling while standing behind Pastor.  Stop looking at the AV window.  Stop looking.  OMG, are they dueling with toy light sabers????

Switch feet.  Now I know why men stopped wearing heels in the 1400s.  It was only French men, though, wasn't it?  I don't remember paintings of English royal men in 5 inch heels.  No, they always had the armor with the funny shaped... stop that! You're in CHURCH!!

Pastor just said something and everyone is clapping.  What did he say??  We're supposed to be repeating what he says.  I can't understand him back here!  "Yes, watermelon walla walla.  Walla Amen walla aluminum." Close enough.

Switch feet.  What if I just wiggle my toes a bit inside the shoes?  Oh that's better.  Wait, no.  They hurt again.

Switch!

Last song.  Just walk slowly, everyone will think we're following the music.  No one will know we're afraid of falling over on toes that went numb ages ago.  Ack.  Not numb anymore!  Owie owie owie!

Wait, "owie" isn't actually one of the lyrics.  If I happen to kick my shoes off in time with the music, will anyone notice?  With my luck I'll bounce my heel off the Pastor's wife.

Oh! Song's over!  We're leaving the stage.  First step.  Second step. Almost there.  Bottom step!  I made it!

THESE SHOES COME OFF NOW!!!

DUCK!!!

You think I'm kidding.  I currently hold the record for clearing an entire row of seats with the left shoe before getting the right shoe off.

Yep.  That's pretty much how our services go in my head when I'm one of the mic singers, so obviously I'm only up there because there is absolutely no one else they can ask and I'm their last resort so they must be spectacularly desperate to be asking me at all.

Stupid tide of doubt.  Go AWAY!

Anyway...

Tonight after service, a gentleman I don't know stepped out of the crowd and hugged me and said I was "gorgeous and did good up there."

Talk about making my night! I was on cloud nine as I'm pretty sure I fluttered out to my car with my kids wondering what was wrong with me.

And about broke my nose when I opened my car door and forgot to move my head.

Tuesdays are gonna kill me. No really. They're definitely out to get me.

Most people hate Mondays because they are the first day of a week of slavery, whether it be to school or to a job.  Even people who don't technically have to get up for any reason seem to still blame poor little Monday for everything wrong with the weekly calendar.  Shoot, even The Mamas and The Papas wrote a song about how Monday betrayed them. You know the one... "Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day.  Monday, Monday. Sometimes it just turns out that way."

Song stuck in your head yet?  Cuz I can type up the rest of the lyrics to really get it good and embedded in there.  *cackle*

At the moment, I kinda like Mondays.  Provided I have kept myself on schedule throughout the week, all I have to do on Mondays is get up to chase my littles off to school and do whatever housework I pretended I couldn't see the night before. After that, I don't have a schedule to meet the entire day until Steve comes home and I drag him over to the church to haul food boxes around for me while I count out 175 each of eight different ingredients for the FUEL bags our church donates to a school each week.  Then we go back home and I fill the rest of my evening with whatever little tasks I can cram into the remaining few hours before my bed stomps through the house, ambushes me, drags me kicking and screaming back to the bedroom, and my blankets suffocate me into a four or five hour coma...

...then Tuesday lands right smack in my face.  Usually in the form of one VERY stinky mother cat who needs her cage cleaned.  Immediately.

The day begins something like this:

Steve mutters and grumbles at me until somewhere deep in my sleepy little subconscious, I finally become aware that if I don't get out of bed and fix the stink NOW, there's a very good chance he's going to shove me into the cage with it.

I groggily trudge across the room and flick on some random light switch along the way which elicits another slew of mutters and grumbles as Steve buries his face under a pillow to hide from smell and light.

I open the door to Squeaker's (yes, that's her name) cage in order to clean out the biobomb/alarm clock.

Four fuzzy bottlerockets shoot out of the cage like someone sprung a jack-in-the-box.

Squeaker calmly steps out of the cage, eyes her 3 week old brood, and pointedly gives me that "you're babysitting now" look as the kittens stumble around the room in clumsy pursuit of anything they probably shouldn't be climbing or chewing, including each other's tails.

A few seconds into cleaning out the "facilities" in the cage, kitten #1 realizes I'm not paying attention to her and fixes the error by climbing into my lap... via my spine.

Kittens #2 and #3 have, by this time, discovered my toes are bare... and apparently edible.

Kitten #4 is walking UNDER her mother while trying to nurse as Squeaker desperately attempts to keep the little parasite at bay for a few minutes.

Eventually the litter is cleaned and put back into the kennel, along with fresh water, and food for the new mama.

One by one the kittens are tracked down and put back into the cage.  

One by one the kittens rocket back out of the cage when I turn my back to catch a sibling.

Wash, rinse, repeat for five minutes until I sprout six arms and stuff everyone back inside with much the same technique one uses to close an overflowing suitcase.

I collapse back into bed with threats of slow and painful, but justifiable, murder if Steve wakes me up when it's time for him to get out of bed.

That's all before daylight.  Once my alarm goes off and the actual day begins, Tuesday really starts to gets mean.

6:30 am - roll both kids out of bed and get them moving in the general direction of preparing for the school day

6:45 am - after getting dressed, making the bed, feeding indoor cats and outdoor ferals, checking on mama and babies, and gathering college coding books, roll both kids out of bed and get them moving in the general direction of preparing for the school day

7:00 am - threaten both kids with dumping buckets of frozen marbles into their beds if they don't get their butts out of their bloody beds and get moving in fast forward to prepare for the school day

7:30 am - remind both kids that should they miss their bus because they're dawdling, I will come back from my class and risk life in prison to chase them down the road to school while pulling off a thoroughly impressive Cruella DeVille impersonation

7:33 am - bolt out the door with 70 pounds of coding books and a laptop to get to class in time

10:00 am - bolt out of class with 70 pounds of coding books and a laptop to get to the church

10:30 am - meet my volunteers to put together 175 bags for students at an elementary school who will need the snack bags over the weekend, in some cases being the only food the kids may get until the next school week begins

11:30 am - drive across town to deliver the bags to the school (well OF COURSE I obey all road rules! Why would you ask that??)

12:00 pm - haul 175 bags into the school

12:15 pm - pointedly ignore the now thoroughly pissed off spine threatening to mutiny in spectacular fashion

12:45 pm - get home and start coding homework

3:30 pm - jump out of my skin when my phone rings because Steve is coming home

3:55 pm - grudgingly allow the kids back into the house now that they're home from school, and kiss peace and quiet goodbye for the night

4:00 pm - break up the first fight over electronics and chase children off to do their homework

4:05 pm - break up the second fight over electronics and chase children off to do their homework

4:15 pm - tell children that I am not doing their homework for them, especially as I have my own homework to do, then watch them shuffle away as if I'd just ordered their favorite dog euthanized

4:20 pm - break up the third fight over electronics and chase children off to get threatened by their Dad about doing their homework and leaving Mom alone to do her homework (sense a theme here?)

6:00 pm - realize what time it is and work out plan to be at choir practice, Cub Scouts, and a business travel party at 6:30.  In three different locations.

9:00 pm - get back home and glare at the still unfinished homework, fresh dishes that multiplied when I wasn't looking, and dirty laundry that couldn't be bothered to wash itself

11:30 pm (or thereabouts) - turn in homework assignment and take weekly quiz

11:45 pm - crawl into bed while trying not to wake Prince Charming who took care of our offspring so I wouldn't eat them

11:50 pm - get woken up by my FitBit complaining that I missed my daily step goal because I was sitting on my butt doing homework all day

11:53 pm - inform Steve that he will need to buy me a new FitBit because mine spontaneously shattered into a gazillion pieces for some strange reason after what may or may not have been vigorous and repeated applications of a sledgehammer to its face

A journey into the realm of personal growth? Oh THIS is gonna be all sorts of entertaining!

Sheesh.  More than two years since my last attempt to resurrect my blog.

That's not a dust bunny.

That's a dust buffalo.

So why am I stirring up a cauldron of temptation for the Fates again?  Well, it was decided that I need to start really trying to see what I can accomplish and what I already contribute in the grand scheme of things.  As far too many people are already aware, it's entirely too easy to undervalue ourselves and find faults that no one else sees. 

Why is that?

Why is it that when we hear someone else say something about us that we don't like, we immediately jump up in all our righteous indignation and glory prepared to tear them up, dress them down, beat them up, knock them down, and otherwise hokey pokey and turn them all around into a body cast because how dare they disrespect us in any way, shape, or form?!?!?....

but we don't even bat an eye when those very same comments, insults, and assorted hateful opinions towards us come from our own mind?  What is it about human beings that makes it so unbelievably easy to latch onto that garbage and drive out the good stuff?

I guess Vivian from "Pretty Woman" had it right: "The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?"

Well, that doesn't make it true, now does it??

This is the struggle I've been dealing with for as long as I can remember.  

~The nagging voice telling me that if I'm not actively doing something productive at all moments of the day, I'm wasting someone's time, taking someone for granted, or letting someone down with my laziness.  This voice has such a hold over me that I cannot sit still and read a book because I have to be physically accomplishing something tangible at all times.

~The ever-raging tides of doubt that tell me over and over that while I'm okay at things like singing, drawing, creating, or writing, I'm not actually GOOD at any of them and people are just trying to spare my feelings.  These tides are most likely the reason my blog, my stitching, my singing, and pretty much every other hobby I've considered end up being shoved aside to make room for things more suitable to someone who is better off behind the scenes.

~The oh-so-familiar-to-EVERYONE cloud of self-loathing that bursts open every time I walk past a reflective surface, see what I look like now, and my mind instantly brings up images of what I looked like in high school or what the current flavor-of-the-month model or sex symbol actress looks like after she's been photoshopped into fantasy.  This is almost certainly to blame for my absolute hatred of clothing shopping of any kind.

This has been going on for so long that Steve once told me he had given up on complimenting me because he got tired of me telling him to stop saying things that weren't true.  It was easier for him to simply make himself scarce than to constantly attempt to fight his way through all my insecurities.

I piled more and more activities into my schedule so I wouldn't have to slow down and think about all the ways I was absolutely convinced I was failing everyone around me.

By the beginning of this year, my body was rebelling and I was just plain getting worn out.  Rest was out of the question since that first voice I mentioned went into overdrive everytime I sat down, so I just promised myself I was gonna quit everything, tell everyone to get the @#$@%!! out of my life, and drive until I found some little town I could hide in.  But, of course, I can't do that until after I complete everything I said I was going to do.  

Cue that irritating voice: "So get your lazy backside out of bed and get busy!"  

"Yes, ma'am."

Let me tell you, that's a miserable way to start every single day.

Fortunately, I have one helluva support group full of friends and mentors who have reached out with so much love, understanding, advice, and patience that it's almost overwhelming.  All because Steve was willing to make me furious by asking them for the help I was too embarrassed to admit I needed.

So, now you're caught up.  

I've been tasked with silencing that nagging voice, ebbing those tides of doubt, and pushing away that cloud of self-loathing.  Thus the excursion into personal growth begins.  I decided that the best tool I can give myself is a journal where I write down one thing each day that made me proud of myself, whether it was something I did, or something someone told me.  When I have rough days, I can look back and hopefully boost myself back up with some of my entries.

As is the case with any major undertaking that is likely to take years, the promise of mistakes along the way looms large.

And as is the case with me on a daily basis, the promise of those mistakes being spectacularly entertaining offers me a plethora of blogfodder!!  

Toss in kids, cats, and my personality and there is some serious sarcastic potential here.

My favorite!!!

Bingo Blitz: "Better than reality TV"

That's what a player said tonight while I was killing time and cool points on another bingo collection.

And she's completely right! Bingo Blitz, I've admitted to myself, has become my guilty pleasure. Not because I'm wasting hours of my life playing a virtual game that will leave me absolutely NOTHING to show for my time a decade from now, but because it's become my new Jerry Springer show.

I actually watch the chat to remind myself that there are people out in the world who are more screwed up than I am.

So what set me off on this random tangent tonight? Allow me to set the stage...

I'm in a bingo room for the newest collection to be introduced to BB.  This means there are around 1000 players working on the same collection, which typically breaks down to around 250 people allocated to the same chat room/game table per room. Of course, the DAY that a new collection opens you can pretty well expect there to be 6,000-7,000 people at any one time, but that was last week so it's not as quite as crowded tonight.

Think about how many words can be produced by a mere two or three people and how fast those words breed in a matter of minutes.  Now think about that in terms of 200 or so people. The chat window that is shared by these 200-250 players is about two inches wide and four inches tall and is constantly scrolling to allow for new text to appear. Got this image firmly in place?

Now follow all that text while you're looking for rapidly called numbers on 4 different cards.

Tonight, we were all happily going through these motions, pretending we were actually accomplishing something by getting a bit closer to completing a pixelated collection of goodies we'll forget about an hour after we get them all and switch to the next obsess-- collection.  A bingo game ends in a rush of last second calls and frantic daubs.  We all click the pretty gold buttons to see what the treasure chests have inside them.  We all click the pretty gold buttons to see our game reward summaries.  We all click the game cards we want to pay for in the next feeble attempt to get something worthwhile.  We all let our eyes wander over to the chat window for the ten seconds we have left before the next round begins.

We all see:

"Well thank you so much, everyone, for the non-response to my entering the room.  Guess I'll go find another room where everyone isn't so mean." (Because I'm a wannabe Grammar Nazi, I corrected a few typos. The original wasn't nearly that intelligent sounding.)

And then the line of text, along with a hundred or so other lines of text, immediately scrolls down out of the 2 inch x 4 inch window and essentially out of existence.

We assume the person who typed this also clicked the "Return to Lobby" button in what she imagined was an amazingly dramatic, huffy, and Academy Award worthy stormout... complete with the angry heel clicking and deafening door slamming.  All the while, still being parked unceremoniously on her backside like the rest of us.

Seriously? You're so important to the Bingo Blitz world that our devices should trumpet alert sounds to notify us that you've logged in? Whenever you type something, the text from other players should all just disappear so we all see only the words your entitled, delicate little fingers produced? When you have something to say, no matter what it might be, we are all expected to drop what we're doing to respond immediately?

Well, it got a response.  Probably not the desired response.  But it got a response.

My writer's block stormed out right alongside her.

Suddenly I was writing down all the ridiculous things BB players say that just drive everyone else playing at the same time absolutely batty.  And I was getting suggestions from other players to add to the list.


~~"This room has been open an hour and I haven't gotten the whole collection yet.  It's rigged!"

Yup. You're totally right. The whole thing is rigged. It's just not right that BB might actually want you to have something to work toward while they brainstorm and put together another collection for you to get angry about.


~~"I completed that last collection an hour ago. Why haven't they released a new room yet???"

Yup. You're totally right. It's just not right that there isn't a BB moderator watching your every keystroke and waiting with bated breath to notify the programming staff that YOU are now bored and must be entertained. Everyone else still trying to complete collections obviously just aren't as dedicated and committed as you are and therefore don't deserve to finish.


~~"So this room opened three and a half minutes ago? Awesome! Anyone got some items they can give me?"

Yup. We were all waiting just for you to enter the room so we could all chip in and complete your collection for you. After all, we wouldn't dream of you using any of YOUR credits or coins. Please! Let us use up all of ours! We weren't gonna use them anyway. Honest.


~~"So this room is set up exactly the same way as all the other rooms that have opened in the last two years? Cool. Which ones are the Hard To Gets and the ones we can't trade?"

You do realize that in the time you spent typing out that question and then waiting impatiently for someone to stop what they're doing to give you the same information you've seen over and over for years you could have clicked on that handy-dandy "Inventory" window and read all the pertinent information for yourself, right? Too much work? Gotcha.  Okay then. Let us stop what we're doing and give you the same information you've seen over and over for years. Can't remember what the answer was? No worries! That same question will get asked again 847 more times in the next couple of hours.


~~"Hey, remember how you Friended me 8 months, 12 days, 11 hours, and 3 minutes ago so we could trade? No? That's alright. I remember! And I was looking through your inventory (since you showed me that nifty "Inventory" button) and saw that you have some stuff I don't have. You won't mind giving them all to me, right? Right? Buddy? We're friends, ya know..."

Sure! We don't mind you rifling through our inventory like it's your own personal donation site. We weren't planning to use those items as trades for future collections or anything. And did we mention that we just LOVE being put on the spot and being forced to play the part of Scrooge if we'd really rather not just give up every item we've got? TOTALLY love it! We live for that stuff!!


~~"I said I needed this shadow and you bingoed anyway. MEANIE! I called dibbs!"

Yup. You're totally right. All 200 of us were completely out of line for playing the cards we paid for. Everyone knows our collections aren't nearly as cosmically important as yours is. We would all like to take this opportunity to offer our most humble apologies and we will now put ourselves in Time Out to think about our bad choices.


~~"You said you had an item I don't have and you won't just give it to me. MEANIE!"

Yup. You're totally right. We should not be permitted to keep extras in the event an appealing trade opportunity turns up for us. Everyone knows our collections aren't nearly as cosmically important as yours is. We would all like to take this opportunity to offer our most humble apologies and we will now put ourselves in Time Out to think about our bad choices.


~~"I told you guys that's not how you should play bingo. You're all idiots and selfish and now you're screwing it up for me! MEANIES!"

Yup. You're totally right. All 200 of us were completely out of line for playing bingo in a manner that would benefit us as opposed to you. Everyone knows our collections aren't nearly as cosmically important as yours is. We would all like to take this opportunity to offer our most humble apologies and we will now put ourselves in Time Out to think about our bad choices.


~~"Every time I log in to play this game, I lose credits and coins and don't ever win anything and I can't get bingos or items or finish collections and it's just not fair! BB hates me!! MEANIES!"

Yup. You're totally right. You are so important that BB has made it their mission statement that YOU and YOU ALONE must be brought down and destroyed. It is imperative that you must never reach your true potential and destiny of winning an online game. You're not paranoid. They really ARE out to get you. As a matter of fact, WE are all on their payroll and it is in our job description to keep YOU from ever succeeding in the bingo world.



Like I said... it's the new Jerry Springer show.

Don't get me wrong. We love all the people who fall into these scenarios. Without them, our online time would be much less entertaining.

And people like me would have to find some other way to put sarcasm to good use.



(If you enjoyed this post, please consider visiting my other BB post Bingo Blitz is Going to Get Someone Killed.)

It's a new year, new slate, new ME! *cough*

Yay! New year! Time to start over with a clean slate!

Okay, so it's time to start over with a smudged, stained, and slightly warped slate. But hey! It's my slate and it's unique.

Today is the first day the kids are back in school which is why I'm able to sit down and try to concentrate on busting through my blogger's block. So far it's not going so well.

I find myself glancing around my house and listening to the sounds of no one being home to fight over computers, television remotes, Christmas presents, chocolate, cats, "my side of the room"s, ...oxygen in general... and try to picture what a normal family's home looks like.

You know... clean, organized, dusted, uncluttered, properly decorated and coordinated to each season. Everything my house is not.  Oh I have plenty of delusions of tidiness! It's just that whenever I start to move in that direction something always seems to get in my way.  

Usually me.

For example:

It's the new year!  First order of business is to take the Christmas tree and decor down and neatly pack it away for safe keeping until Thanksgiving.  For the normal person that would mean retrieving boxes, putting said decorations into the boxes, and putting the boxes away. A good pass with the vacuum cleaner and you're all set to begin stocking up on Valentine's Day chocolate.

Yeah. That's not how it works here.

For me, putting Christmas away looks alot like this:

~Look around the house to determine all the rooms Christmas danglies got hung in.

~Distract the cat who just got reminded there are dozens of sparkly danglies hanging around the house.

~Head toward Christmas storage closet to retrieve the designated boxes.

~Discover that all of the required boxes have been stacked behind present wrapping materials.

~Clear children's toys and the cat off the nearest furniture.

~Empty Christmas storage closet of pretty much EVERYTHING in quest to reach designated boxes.

~Look around the house to remind myself which boxes were the original goal of entering Christmas storage closet in the first place.

~Dig through piles of storage boxes until finding the required boxes.

~Move through house removing sparkly Christmas danglies one at a time while fending off overly interested cat.

~Remove other cat from storage box before packing danglie and going back for another.

~Chase original cat down and rescue sparkly danglie that was too close to where the step stool was left.

~Remove other cat from storage box before packing danglie and going back for another.

~Wash, rinse, repeat until all sparkly Christmas danglies are packed safely into their boxes.

~Take boxes back to Christmas storage closet.

~Stare back and forth from empty Christmas storage closet to piles of Christmas decoration boxes while strategizing how to pack everything away so next year's unpacking and redecorating will be efficient.

~Evict cats from piles of Christmas decoration boxes.

~Pack most of the boxes into Christmas storage closet.

~Remember that the Christmas tree, its lights, and ornaments have not been packed away yet.

~Remove several boxes from Christmas storage closet until finding the designated lights and ornaments boxes.

~Evict cats from Christmas storage closet.

~Remove one ornament from Christmas tree and tuck carefully into storage box.

~Chase cat down and steal back ornament.

~Pack ornament into box.

~Gingerly reach into Christmas tree at about shoulder level and detach cat from branches, one paw and a tail at a time.

~Remove one ornament from Christmas tree and tuck carefully into storage box.

~Wash, rinse, repeat until all ornaments have been removed from the tree.

~Pull cat out of ornament box.

~Crawl under Christmas tree to get hold of one end of a string of Christmas tree lights.

~Tweak back and neck trying to crawl backwards without getting hair tangled in low hanging branches or crushing cat limbs under knees that suddenly seem as big as elephant feet.

~Make myself dizzy walking in slow circles around the tree while winding light cords around my arm.

~Gingerly reach into Christmas tree at about shoulder level and detach cat from branches, one paw and a tail at a time.

~Retrieve ornaments that were missed the first time and stolen by other cat.

~Wash, rinse, repeat until all light strings have been removed from the tree, bound up, and stuffed into the bottom of a box somewhere.

~Wait for the room to stop spinning.

~Haul remaining Christmas decoration boxes back to Christmas storage closet and unceremoniously cram the whole shooting match inside while muttering "Stay!" and glaring threateningly at what has become an impressive Jenga sculpture.

~Slam Christmas storage closet doors closed and give serious consideration to getting chains and padlocks to make sure they stay closed.

~Head over to main storage room and discover that the corner where the Christmas tree will be carefully packed away has been buried and blocked off by two months worth of shoving things out of the way in preparation for my annual "Gotta organize this house!" fit.

~Evict cats from storage room while threatening all eighteen of their lives at once as nervous breakdown starts.

~Remove everything from the storage room that blocks the path to where Christmas tree will be packed away.

~Evict cats from storage room while threatening all eighteen of their lives.

~Consider powerful medications and just how bad could all those side effects really be?? I mean, if they were so terrible they wouldn't be allowed to sell the stuff right?  RIGHT???

~Take Christmas tree apart and begin packing it into its protective bag.

~Unpack Christmas tree and chase cat out of protective bag.

~Repack Christmas tree into its protective bag with one hand while pinning both cats down with the other hand.

~Unlock front door and grudgingly allow children into the house.

~Drag protective bag loaded down with what suddenly feels like a four ton Christmas tree upstairs and into storage room corner where it will be carefully packed away for the next year.

~Pointedly ignore children who are now howling at the top of their lungs that they didn't WANT the tree put away.

~Evict cats... and kids... from storage room without uttering a syllable.

~Close storage room door.

~Climb over and around everything that had been pulled out of the storage room to clear a path for the Christmas tree.

You know what?

Clean, organized, dusted, uncluttered, properly decorated and coordinated to each season houses are totally overrated.  And there's always next year to start over, right??

*cry*

Where exactly do our oddball sayings come from?

No, seriously. I gotta ask this.

Yes, it's almost midnight and I really should be going to bed, but that's a different track of insanity I really don't wanna follow right now.

I just happened to announce in passing to my husband that I needed to use the household facilities.  As I bolted out of the room at warp speed in a race against my biological functions, of course, I mentioned this in as ladylike a manner as I possibly could...

Me: "Look out! I gotta pee like a race horse!"
Steve: "No, it's 'I gotta pee like a Russian race horse'.  Get it right."
Me: "Wouldn't that leave an awful lot of yellow icicles hanging around in odd places?"

Once the necessities were handled... shush, you... we found ourselves wondering just where this term originated and why.  So, like the expert researchers we are, Steve loaded up Google and went to town.

He found something.. somewhere on the internet... that explained something or other about horses, particularly show and race horses being uncomfortable piddling outside their stalls, thus the sense of urgency to suddenly get back to a stall for private time.

Personally, I think it's more along the lines of wanting to be in first place in a horse race, so you don't suddenly find yourself running through a rain shower that wasn't scheduled by Mother Nature.


But there are other phrases I hear that make me stop and wonder just where on God's green earth someone came up with such a saying, and more to the point, why in the world do we REPEAT them???



For example...

~~~"Best foot forward."

Errmmm...  Am I the only one who hasn't found myself sitting around staring at my feet to see which one is better looking than the other?  I suppose I could take the time to see if my left foot pulls off the stiletto look better than the right foot, but I think I'd get some pretty strange looks if I ask the sales clerk to "only sell me the left shoe because the right shoe just looks awkward in that style".



~~~"Bite the bullet."

No thank you.  You bite the bullet. I'm not that hungry.  I'll take a chunk out of that chocolate bar. K. Thanks.



~~~"Bury the hatchet"

Awesome.  We're gonna be buddies because you buried your hatchet.  I'll be more inclined to believe that when you bury your crossbow, knives, ax, rifle, flamethrower.... oh and your shovel just to prove you're not gonna dig all that stuff back up while I'm sleeping.




~~~"Break a leg!"

This one really confuses me.  I realize that it means to wish someone in the acting world good luck on their performance, but you would have to be one helluvan actor to make breaking ANY limb seem like a positive thing.

The only way I see this being a happy phrase is if you work for the mafia and just got sent on a high paying job to maim someone.



~~~"Nothing to sneeze at."

Hrmmph.  As if our noses actually need a target to suddenly discharge every ounce of mucus our bodies have stored up since the last time our faces exploded in a usually public place that guarantees everyone in the vicinity is going to turn to stare at us while we use our bare hands to try to defy gravity and a mini Niagara Falls impersonation all at once.


Has anyone else noticed that most of our sayings revolve around gross bodily functions?

Sophisticated we ain't.

Conversations you can NEVER unhear.

Last week was our anniversary, so we went out with a dozen or so friends to a local eatery and had quite a fun time.

I spend most of my time in groups listening to other conversations and am usually thoroughly entertained in this manner for hours.  Other times, I feel a bit on the mentally violated side.

This night offered several opportunities for the latter option and because I'm who I am, I volunteered for more.  How could I possibly pass up this much fodder for an otherwise neglected and forlorn blog??

Here is just a tiny sample of topics discussed at the meal.

"Butt Calling a Booty Call"
This is a prime example of why someone should clear their contacts out of their phone and start over once they get married.  Especially if said someone is prone to drinking more than he should while out with buddies.
It cuts down on the early morning rude awakenings by angry boyfriends when you're far too hungover to remember a one-night stand from years ago you didn't realize you'd dialed up and treated to the muffled sounds of drunken karaoke at 3am.

This is also a prime example of a conversation one does NOT want one's spouse made aware of.  Especially when it's the spouse who answers the door after that rude awakening.

"You're Pretty."
Granted, this particular conversation was short in and of itself.  The reactions, on the other hand, were loud and highly entertaining.

Guy #1: "Why do you wear your makeup like that?"
Girl #1: "You're just not used to seeing this much beauty in one place."
Guy #1: "People only say you're pretty cuz they wanna get into your bed."
Girl #1: *pause to consider response*
Guys #2,3,4,5....: *almost in unison* "You're pretty."

"I Can Be Manly.  In a Girly Way."
This is cringeworthy enough when it's a woman speaking.  When it's a pack of men discussing how to make this apply...

No amount of "we were just giving her advice about how this is done!" could salvage the image damage done here.  Especially not once it was discovered just how naturally the lisping came to these guys...

...and they started lisping at the servers.

We may never be allowed back into that eatery again.  Ever.

Flattery will get you nowhere. Violent threats, however...

Seriously.  That's why I'm blogging again.  My friends are getting a smidgen on the we-know-where-you-live-we-know-how-to-torture-you-we-know-how-to-get-rid-of-a-body-and-we-will-alibi-each-other-til-Doomsday side.

I can take a hint.  Especially hints as subtle as 20 pound sledgehammers.

Who is actually surprised that it's been 6 months since my last post here?  Anyone?

What have I been doing that's keeping me away from my blog?

*fidget*

Well...

We went to Guatemala and helped build a Bottle School.  That was mildly AMAZING!
We stayed at the Venetian-Palazzo in Las Vegas for a week.  That was pretty mind blowing, too.
We met up with and played with a few thousand friends just outside of Atlanta for a weekend.
I hung out with a pack of absolutely BATTY friends for a long weekend in Dallas.
I took over the volunteer end of the FUEL program at the church I attend.
I've been working with my husband to build a business we both love and believe in.
I agreed to let my two youngest children join Girl Scouts and Tiger Scouts.
I agreed to let my older daughter add "a few" extracurricular activities to her schedule. *twitch*
I stitched a few things.
I read a book or two.
I managed to not strangle any of my offspring.
I managed to not strangle any of my furbabies.
I managed to avoid being strangled by my husband.

What time has been left over has either been obliterated on Facebook games or spent diving headfirst into the world of Supernatural and Criminal Minds courtesy of Netflix.

Oh, don't get me wrong! I have all sorts of delusions of accomplishment in the near future!!

I'm working on learning some semblance of the Spanish language for our next trip to Guatemala.
I'm working on ambushing some poor soul to teach me how to write code for a virtual scrapbook that can be loaded onto a CD or DVD and installed onto another computer with functional links to this image or that page, etc etc.
I'm working on getting my house to look like a home instead of the aftermath of a tornado ravaging a Goodwill warehouse.
I'm working on making my flowerbed flood proof and making my weedbed extinct.
I'm working on convincing my scale and my reflection that I really-honestly-truly-swear-to-God weigh 105 pounds and wear size 3 clothes.
I'm working on convincing my body that the daily exercise is not in violation of any of the Geneva Convention and will continue until my scale and reflection believe that I do, in fact, weigh 105 pounds and wear size 3 clothes.  (Yes, I do realize I'll be exercising until the day I keel over and drown in my own sweat. Thank you for pointing this out.  Again.)

So you see, I've been keeping myself occupied pretty steadily in hopes of keeping myself out of trouble.

Well, at least out of trouble that could land me on the 6:00 news.

Here's the thing...

You know that person you can just look at and immediately tell that spending any time at all with them is going to result in a whole bunch of the above mentioned trouble?

That person that every normal member of society shakes their collective heads at and often wonders which mental institution they escaped from and just how many different kinds of happy pills they're supposed to be taking?

Yeah.  That person.

Well, I surround myself with as many of them as I can find.

For several reasons:

~They're fun.
~They can laugh at themselves because they understand that everyone gets laughed at and they might as well get some enjoyment out of the mockery too!
~They can't be bothered with being Politically Correct because, honestly, who has the energy to be offended by every syllable uttered by every other living creature in the cosmos??
~They find humor in just about any situation because no matter how serious you take life you're not getting out of it alive, anyway.
~They're nearly impossible to offend in any way, shape, or form.
~They make me seem minutely normal.  Sorta.  Once in awhile.

But mostly I surround myself with these people because no one else will let me hang out with them!

My baby is gonna be six tomorrow!

Wow.  Six years old.  Hunter. My youngest child.

I'm getting old.

*sigh*

I'm told I should be mourning how fast he is growing and how brief his baby and toddler years were.

I'm supposed to be sad that he's past the stage of infancy where every time someone took a step near him to coo and gush over how adorable he was I went into Maniacal Ninja Guard Mom mode and sized each person up to see how fast I could break every bone I could reach if my baby so much as whimpered.

I should be missing those weeks of never getting a full night's sleep because he woke up squalling for food every four hours or, if he didn't wake up squalling for food every four hours, I panicked and woke him up to see what dire medical emergency was ensuring he slept soundly for a few more hours.

It should be breaking my heart that he is beyond the point of giving me repeated mini-strokes each time he stumbled, tripped, stubbed an adorable little toe, face-planted, or DEAR GAWD HE'S BLEEDING!!!! in his quest for personal evolution and bipedal status.

I should be missing the days... weeks... MONTHS! when the only words he pronounced clearly were "Why?" and "NO!"

I'm supposed to be melancholy and mopey that he has developed past the period in his life where he was perfecting his artistic techniques and leaving poo murals and crop circles all over the house in our misguided attempts to potty train him.

I should get teary-eyed and runny-nosed when I reminisce about dropping him off for his first day of school and watching him bolt toward those big double doors with so much excitement about finally being a big boy before I went home to an empty house and had my first HOT meal in 5 years and I didn't have to share it!!

I should be thinking back and getting depressed that all those experiences are behind me and I can never get them back no matter how many times or how tightly I hug my little boy while he squirms and whines about not being able to breath.

I can't bring myself to do that. I have never been that kind of mom and often joke that I'm missing a Mommy Gene somewhere.

Instead I find myself anxiously looking forward to watching him over the next few years as his interests and passions take real form. I'm fascinated by how quickly he becomes enamored with movie heroes and how well he mimics them.  It's particularly entertaining to see him destroy a perfectly clean playroom in a matter of minutes when he's unable to choose if he's going to be Thor with the mighty hammer, Hawkeye with the "AWESOME!" bow, Captain America with the "totally cool" shield, or just go mean and green and "HULK SMASH!"... so he grabs the whole shooting match and tosses on Superman's cape for good measure and transforms into my own personal Sharknado of chaos.
Now that he's seen Kellan's Lutz's "Hercules" and his "new best movie!!" "Godzilla", things are bound to get REALLY interesting!

I can't wait to watch him excel in the math he seems to love so much and try to dodge the reading he thinks he isn't any good at, despite him still being able to read faster and better than his peers, especially if the book in front of him is something he's interested in.  I have to admit I'm a little apprehensive about future science projects.  He is his father's son after all.  SOMETHING is going to explode at some point.  Likely intentionally.  Highly entertaining but most assuredly messy...

He wants to play baseball, soccer, football, and hockey.

He wants to run track, rollerskate, skateboard, ice skate.  He hasn't even mentioned riding a bike yet but since he's getting one tomorrow we'll see how long it takes him to decide he's going to win the Tour de France someday.  I can't wait to see which sport he'll decide he wants to play most or if he'll just play them all.

I can't wait to watch his personality really take shape and reveal whether or not he's going to be a straight-laced, what you see is what you get young man.  Or maybe he's going to be the class clown who never runs out of pranks and surprises to keep everyone hopping and laughing.

There's so much to look forward to, so many achievements waiting for him, so many doors he still gets to open and so many paths he has yet to run down.

I can't be sad and miss the days when he was a baby.
Because, honestly, every time I hug him and hold him tight...

He's my baby all over again.

Another month gone by...

...and I'm just now blogging again.  Figures, right?  Hey, at least I'm still sneaking in at the once a month pace!

I have no idea what to blog about.  Steve says to write about the Easter egg hunt we did last week, or Hunter's announcement that he is definitely allergic to direct sunlight, or Sarah's bizarre costume she wore to a cosplay convention in Nashville, or some idiocy my cats have gotten up to, or the new flowers that finally got put into the flower bed, or my latest race to the death with a stitching deadline I'm pretending doesn't exist.

All decent ideas.  Nothing coming to mind about how to word any of that to be even remotely entertaining to anyone else.

Zippy is sitting in my lap demanding attention.  It'd be cute as all get out if I didn't think she was secretly plotting how to sink her teeth into my jugular in retaliation for yet another vet visit.  She's been having urination issues the last month or so.  The issue being that she's urinating on our bed which is waaaay out of character for one of the most well-behaved cats I've ever known.

Took her to the vet to get her checked for what I was sure was a UTI, but they couldn't get a sample out of her no matter what they tried.  They were completely in love with her about twenty seconds after taking her out of my arms though.  See, Zippy hugs.  Tightly.  Especially when she's frightened.  So the doctor thought it was just adorable that he peeled her off of my neck only to have her flip around, wrap both front legs around his neck, and press her head up under his chin.

Then she started squeezing.
And pushing her head harder.
And squeezing some more.
And nuzzling.

And the doc's eyes got wide.
And his face got red.
And his mouth opened slightly.
And his face got purple.

And the tech and I had to remove the growth from him.

Zippy is the sweetest, cutest, furriest boa constrictor you'll ever meet.

But after they were forced to resort to using a needle to get a urine sample directly out of her bladder and then cram the first of many pills down her throat to combat the massive bacterial infection she has, I'm a little concerned about my wellbeing for the next couple of days.  Well, that and I keep checking to see if she's piddled on my pillow in revenge yet.

"Wow, Kiri!  Your shampoo has a ... unique ... scent to it.  What brand are you using?"
"I believe it's called Salon de Take-me-to-the-vet-again-and-I'll-eat-your-eyes-while-you-sleep."

*sigh*

Sleep is totally overrated anyhow, right?

I should write a book?

This was pointed out to me by someone last night while I was babbling about something or other.  She was immediately agreed with by at least two other people.

I shut up.  Obviously, I'd been running my mouth far too much again.

Books are written by creative people who are capable of keeping their thoughts on the same train and sometimes even in the same passenger car.  My thoughts are the ones running alongside the train banging on the windows and begging the driver not to leave them behind.

Oh, I come up with some awesome ideas for stories!  Generally based on a story written by someone else that was so good I went straight back to the first page and started over trying to imagine it being told from the point of view of a different character.  I'm sure I'd be an amazingly famous published writer living in the lap of luxury off of the royalties I was raking in... if it wasn't for all this malarky about plagiarism or some nonsense about stealing someone else's ideas.  Pfffft.

I mean.  errrmmm....

*cough*

"But you write a blog, don't you?"

Yeah.  Once in a blue moon.  Unreliably.  Badly.

And it's about my kids and my cats.

Riveting stuff.

Books are supposed to be written by people who can draw on their own life experiences for inspiration.

I just don't have that exciting a life.  Oh there's drama alright.  I have a teenage daughter.  Drama moved in and took over several years ago.  And isn't paying its fair share of the bills, either.

But even the drama isn't really MY drama.  I grew up being surrounded by other people's drama.  Somehow I always seemed to be a spectator to the most unbelievable situations.  A few times I played a minor role while trying to get away from whatever was going on.  But almost every unbelievable event I can recall swirled around somebody else I just happened to be standing near.

There was the time I was walking home from school with a couple of classmates when I was maybe 11 years old.  We came around a patch of trees and could see the huge field we'd be crossing to get to the apartment complex I lived in.  I ran ahead of my two friends and slowed down when I saw my mother and little sister coming across that field to meet us.  Then I saw my sister cover her face, my mother's face turn ghost white and she tried to run (Mom had ankle issues that made running a physical impossibility for her) toward me, and I heard my friends behind me screaming my name frantically.  There was this really strong breeze that blew past me suddenly and when I turned to see what all the ruckus was about, a wannabe yacht of an ugly yellow old car was entering the gas station parking lot across the street from us... via the curb and sidewalk.

According to everyone else, the driver had turned his car so he was aiming directly at me and then at the last second swerved away which is what caused that gust of air I remember.  I don't remember hearing any squealing tires at all, but there must have been something because people were pouring out of the stores and running toward us to make sure I was alright.

Honestly, I was just wondering what the fuss was all about.

Which has been a pretty consistent theme throughout my life.

The details I remember out of these events are strange too.

~I remember the color of that car perfectly and can recreate it fairly easily with a dirty yellow crayola marker and a splash of weak coffee.

~I remember how, when I was about 12, an apartment complex pool went from sounding like a library while a neighbor's 3 year old was drowning in front of everyone to sounding like a bomb had gone off when I tapped her mother on the leg and pointed to the little girl.

~I remember thinking, at the supposedly mature age of 33, how I was "never going to get that smell out of my carpet" when my neighbor's 2 year old daughter's body relaxed and emptied on my dining room floor after she'd left the child alone in a bathtub for what she said was "only thirty minutes".

~I remember being angry at Steve for a few moments when it happened because he'd just deployed two days earlier and this stuff NEVER happens when he's around.

~I remember the sound of happy birds nearby, the color and smell of the hair, and the Easter pink business jacket and skirt of the woman who tried to take my then 5 month old son out of my car at a fast food drive-thru.

~I remember the click of a traffic signal changing colors followed by the sounds of car doors in every direction flying open when a driver fell asleep at the wheel, careened headlong into a large generator box at a major intersection, and I joined a dozen or more other people racing toward his car to see if he was okay.

~I remember the sound of metal collapsing in on itself and the rough, angry tremble in Steve's voice coming across his cellphone when his little hatchback was unlucky enough to be in the path of a large buck... for the second time in a month.

~I remember hearing a car radio struggling to play music that sounded like it was underwater when a woman called into the center after being in an accident and nearly five minutes of hysterical sobbing later was finally able to make us understand she was trapped in her seat, under the windshield, with the corpse of the full grown deer she'd collided with laying on top of her.


~~~~~~~~

See... this is the stuff I remember.  This is the sort of thing I can catch myself babbling about incessantly if I'm not careful.  Not the sort of thing people typically want to read about.  And I want to laugh anyway.  I need to find humor in everything, perhaps because of the above situations.

So I focus my attention and my blog on the fairly regular, but small, bits of lunacy my cats and children can produce.  That's never enough to write a full book about, though.

Which is good.

Somehow having a full length catalog of all the ways I can blackmail my children when they start dating doesn't seem the best way to win Mother of the Year.

And it doesn't help that my cats seem hellbent on proving they are all completely insane and gonna take me down with them.

I think they may succeed.

Something just crashed downstairs.

Zippy looks like she has a bottle brush stuck to her butt.

Lea looks irritated and bored at the same time.

Flicker looks sleepy.

Jack looks innocent.

Bullpuckey.

Bingo Blitz is going to get someone killed.

Yep.  I said "bingo".  As in sitting at a table with half a dozen people in a room crammed with 13 or 14 more tables crowded with dozens of other people who have also given up on finding anything even remotely dignified to do with their evening.  At least the whole "blue hair" thing is optional.

You can usually tell which tables are the "happening" tables by the people who appear to be suffering from a bad case of abnormally large, rainbow hued measles after failing to dodge repeated "daub & run" attacks perpetrated by their companions.

I'll admit it.  I could probably fit into this crowd fairly easily even at my age.  (First person who asks me what it was like to ride a T-rex is gonna get fed to him.) But since I'm not one for gambling real money, bingo tends to get monotonous in a hurry.  The total reliance on sheer luck drives me batty as well.

Short drive.  Yeah, I know.  I've had that particular personality trait pointed out to me on many occasions.

Well, it turns out that someone got the idea to "spice up" the game of bingo and introduced the Facebook world to Bingo Blitz. The classic game has been all gussied up with pretty graphics, computer generated callers sporting hideous accents, and even a way to strategize and improve your chances of getting bingos using these doohickies called Power Ups.
If you get bored with the bingo side of things, you can also go muck around with their slots rooms.  Nothing different about the slots stuff; standard, run of the mill, no concentration needed, spin yourself into a computer coma, slots.

To keep things from getting dull and stagnant, you play the bingo and slots in an effort to win collection items in each of the rooms.  These items can come from treasure chest squares or from what are universally referred to as "shadow cards" because they have a silhouette of one of the collection items.  If you bingo on that card, Voila!, you just won the item.

I'm borderline OCD.  Oh yeah.  I must have every item.  Now.  Sleep and food are inconsequential.  Smaller versions of myself can learn to fend for themselves.  Let the dust bunnies clean the house.  I'm busy!

And I'm not the only one!

The desire to get these collection items has to led to some fairly basic strategies that usually require dragging the individual rounds out as long as possible for more opportunity to daub treasure squares or to get a bingo on the shadow card.

You have to "buy" your game cards with the virtual currency of the game known as credits which are earned by winning bingos and through the daily "Yay! You checked back in today! You love us and still have no life!" allowances. Obviously you want to bingo 1st, 2nd, or 3rd for the larger credit prizes. If not in the top three, you still want to bingo at some point so you get at least some sort of credit prize to recoup what you spent on the round.

Now there is a small element of cooperation between players when it comes to the collection items, because trading most of the items is allowed.  This is a lovely aspect of the Bingo Blitz world intended to bring us together and foster harmony and love.

As with anything even remotely competitive in the universe, you have people who want to play one way, and other people who want to play in a different style.

And as with anything in the universe even remotely involving humans, you have drama.

Now that the basic set up has been laid out, lemme pull you in a smidge farther.  You know that first group I described?  The ones focused on getting collections completed?  That camp is generally called the "Holders".  They hold their bingos as long as they possibly can before clicking that "BINGO!" button just before the last bingo is called. Some holders don't call their bingos at all if they think they're helping other players and these folks can get downright homicidal if you call a bingo while they're holding for a specific person.

Then you have the group that just want to play bingo and aren't necessarily concerned with strategy or completing the collections.  They want to win and they want to get back some of the credits they paid to get into the game.  This group of players really doesn't have a collective name at this time, but they can also get downright homicidal if anyone challenges their right to claim their hard earned currency.

These two groups of players generally despise each other. In a Skittles vs M&Ms sort of way. In a dog lover vs cat lover sort of way.  In a Star Trek vs Star Wars sort of way.

I tend to think the "holder" term gets used a little too much.  But then, I like to believe that logic and I have a pretty decent relationship.

For example, in every online bingo game out there the bingos trickle in slowly at the start and then begin to speed up as more people get their bingos, usually ending in a chaotic crashing wave effect of players trying to claim a win before either time runs out or the allotted number of wins allowed is used up.  (Bingo Blitz uses the allotted wins based on the number of cards purchased method.)
The chaos at the end of the game is often immediately followed by "Ugh!  Holders!!"
Now, there's a very good possibility that this is due to the holders watching the number of bingos remaining and gauging how much longer they can try to accumulate treasure chests or coins before grabbing their spot on the winners list.

But I really wonder if anyone ever takes into consideration that there are often times more than 100 cards in play in any given bingo room.  Now, last time I checked there are only 75 numbers in the bingo pool.  Call the first number, and now there are 74.  Call another number, only 73 left.  You get the idea.  If each of the people in the room is paying attention and daubing off their numbers as they're called, doesn't it stand to reason that the remaining numbers on their cards
~might
~match
~the remaining numbers
~on someone else's
~cards?

And as more numbers are called and the pool of numbers that hasn't been called is shrinking, wouldn't it also stand to reason that more and more players
~might
~possibly
~need
~the same number
~to win
~at the same time?

Yeah, I know.  That's deep stuff.  I'll wait while folks get their muck boots on.

Like I said, the rivalry between the above camps is there but for the most part, up to now,  they have simply been more irritating to each other than malicious.

A few months ago BB changed the collections just slightly.  Before, everything was able to be traded to whomever you wanted to trade with.  Now, there are items that are "not giftable" and thus have to be won by you if you wish to complete the set.  Since some collection items are only available out of the treasure chests, you can see why it's getting more and more popular to join what used to be a fairly small holder camp and try to collect as many chests as possible before claiming that bingo you have sitting and waiting on your card.

The reason this irritates people who don't hold is easy to illustrate. You're sitting there waiting for the caller to call another number with the remaining bingo tally sitting at 15 or 20.  If no one is holding, in order for another bingo to be won another number must be called, right?  Well, holders are viewed kind of like used car salesmen ready to pounce on the first victim to cross into the line of vision. All it takes is one person clicking bingo in the lull between numbers and setting off the sound effect indicating that the bingos are almost all claimed, and then all the holders click at once.
POOF!
The bingos are gone.
To add insult to injury, the poor confused computer generated caller with his or her hideous accent, often still tosses out one last number that does no good whatsoever for the people who needed it to win.

If the poor callers were real people, there'd be a witness protection program for them.

So you'd think the battle lines would be pretty clear, right?  Easy to see who is on which side?

Trust BB to throw a monkey wrench into things.

There are seasonal collections!  Rooms that open for maybe a month at a time and are usually unbelievably expensive to play.  And of course, they include items that cannot be traded.  BB has also gotten almost obsessively fond of tiered rooms requiring players to complete what boils down to 3 individual collections for each room.

Limited time to play: holding seems the best strategy in order to maximize chances of getting the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Unbelievably expensive: not holding seems the best strategy in order to win back some of your credits so you can afford to keep attempting to get the bloody collection items before the room closes.
Tiered rooms: up the stress level because you can't collect anything from higher tiers if you can't complete the tier you're on, making it that much more important that your chosen strategy not be completely derailed by someone in the other camp!

Oh it gets UGLY when someone is one number away from getting that coveted hard to get shadow and the call to "HOLD YOUR BINGOS!!!" goes out, then that poor soul who has just enough credits to play one more game IF he wins this round claims said bingo and opens the gate releasing all the holders at once before another number can be called.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picture this:

Team Hold on one side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Frothing at the mouth and daring ANYONE to click a bingo before all the prizes on every one of the cards have been claimed.

Team Don't Hold on other side of the room, brutal weapons of choice in hand. Eyes glazing and nostrils flaring preparing to defend the right to not throw away credits that could be collected and used toward more rounds.

Forget negotiations.  Forget forgiveness.  This is it.  The ultimate rivalry.  Neither group could hate anyone else more than the other team.  Step between them and get trampled without even being seen.

Is there anything in the cosmos that could ever make these two factions agree to not kill each other?


"Hey guys!  I just started this room a minute ago and I don't have anything.  I need someone to give me stuff!"




(If you enjoyed this post, please consider popping over to my other BB post Bingo Blitz: Better than Reality TV.)