I'm FREEZING! Of course, I'm inside an air conditioned home where the person in charge of the temperature seems to really like the temperate climate of Antarctica. *whine*
I can't help it! I need heat. Apparently, lots of heat. I tend to start shivering if the temperature drops below 80°. Add direct sunshine and I'm in seventh heaven. I could happily sleep in a sauna. Or maybe the oven. That could work. It's a well known fact to everyone in my family that if our home were to catch fire in the dead of winter, the firefighters would find me warming myself next to an open flame and flat refusing to step foot outside in the snow.
You know that Jeff Foxworthy skit about "snuggling with a Butterball turkey"? Yeah... that's me. It could be the middle of August on the equator and I would still be able to successfully draw screeches by sticking my hands on the nape of someone's neck. As a matter of fact, Steve has taken advantage of this... gift. We were at a 4th of July BBQ and I walked by where he was sitting. He scared me half to death by suddenly grabbing me and hauling me toward him. Of course I shrieked. Of course everyone turned to stare. And there was Steve flattening my hands against the back of his neck and "aaaaahhhhh"ing with contentment while I turned eight or nine shades of red.
Most couples argue about finances. We argue over the A/C. Steve's evening routine generally involves coming home from work, changing, turning the A/C back on, patrolling the entire house and opening all the vents, then patrolling again because I'm three steps behind him closing them all as fast as I can.
I tell him it's because I'm being thrifty and trying to keep our electric bill down during the summer. In reality, I'm just tired of biting my tongue when my teeth chatter.
Yeah. I'm that clumsy.
What? This surprises you?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
They're growing back.....
Those weeds. They're coming back. I knew they would, but I was kind of hoping it would take more than a couple of days. *whimper*
Steve and I have been discussing what is to be done about it next spring. Loosely translated: I've been planning out loud and he's been running finances through his mind and trying not to cry. I've decided that I'm going to dig the entire area up, move all the dirt to some other part of our property, and fill in the gaping hole with a layer of ground cover, a ton of potting soil mixed with plant food, and a whole slew of pretty flowers that I don't stand a chance of keeping alive. Since the area in question is approximately 6' x 10' and it's been recommended that I dig about a foot down to be sure there aren't any particularly devious weeds left behind, you can just imagine how many bags of soil we'll have to buy. Then there's the need to buy enough flowers and plants to fill the vacated space, the various fertilizers and weed killers that will be purchased just in case, all the gardening tools, gardening books, gardening gloves....
How did I manage to get Steve to agree to this? Easy peasy. I just happened to let it slip that somewhere in that long list of necessities should be that fancy shmancy wheelbarrow attachment he's been wanting for his lawnmower. After all, we've gotta get all the old dirt moved somehow right?
And I didn't forget about involving the kids in the project. Sarah is excited about picking a bunch of flowers that she thinks are pretty. Heather can't wait to water whatever gets planted while the rest of us frantically attempt to keep her from drowning everything in sight. And Hunter gets to play in the old dirt and retrieve as many worms as he can find.
Granted, not a one of us knows the first thing about gardening or landscaping but how hard can it be to play in dirt? Besides, I have a backup plan if this fails and weeds creep back into my flowerbed.
I've agreed that Steve can buy a flamethrower too.
Steve and I have been discussing what is to be done about it next spring. Loosely translated: I've been planning out loud and he's been running finances through his mind and trying not to cry. I've decided that I'm going to dig the entire area up, move all the dirt to some other part of our property, and fill in the gaping hole with a layer of ground cover, a ton of potting soil mixed with plant food, and a whole slew of pretty flowers that I don't stand a chance of keeping alive. Since the area in question is approximately 6' x 10' and it's been recommended that I dig about a foot down to be sure there aren't any particularly devious weeds left behind, you can just imagine how many bags of soil we'll have to buy. Then there's the need to buy enough flowers and plants to fill the vacated space, the various fertilizers and weed killers that will be purchased just in case, all the gardening tools, gardening books, gardening gloves....
How did I manage to get Steve to agree to this? Easy peasy. I just happened to let it slip that somewhere in that long list of necessities should be that fancy shmancy wheelbarrow attachment he's been wanting for his lawnmower. After all, we've gotta get all the old dirt moved somehow right?
And I didn't forget about involving the kids in the project. Sarah is excited about picking a bunch of flowers that she thinks are pretty. Heather can't wait to water whatever gets planted while the rest of us frantically attempt to keep her from drowning everything in sight. And Hunter gets to play in the old dirt and retrieve as many worms as he can find.
Granted, not a one of us knows the first thing about gardening or landscaping but how hard can it be to play in dirt? Besides, I have a backup plan if this fails and weeds creep back into my flowerbed.
I've agreed that Steve can buy a flamethrower too.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Cats. *twitch*
What can I say?
I'm usually quite the cat person. My cats drive everyone around me crazy but they're my girls and they make me smile most of the time. And if the two cats living inside the house aren't enough to keep us all on our toes, I've managed to accumulate a pack of furballs outside as well. One female, three males, and one kitten who still teleports across the neighborhood when I step outside. Oh, and the female's sister who shows up once a month or so if hunting squirrels doesn't pan out. As usual, Steve puts up with me and my need to take care of the poor starving mooches and his smile only falters once in awhile. (Normally about the same time his toes find some recycled catfood.)
Then there are times when I could quite happily donate my fuzzy little angels to a local petting zoo. Case in point: Meet Lea. She is, without a doubt, MY cat. She has the perfect attitude to match mine. Something along the lines of "Go ahead. Tease me. I will bite your nose off while you sleep."
Today she wanted my attention. I was occupied with the wolf I've been stitching on for going on two years. She didn't like this. Now, I was one of those well-behaved kids who found it impossible to walk past a bed covered in sleeping cats without taking a running leap into the air and screeching "BONZAAIIIII!" just before landing in the middle of them. Great fun! Unless you were one of the cats, I suppose.
Ever hear that old addage "What goes around comes around"?
Yeah. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I heard a feline rendition of a Comanche warcry a nanosecond before 10 pounds of fuzzbucket landed right smack in the middle of my cross stitch.
~Cali, who had still been sleeping at the foot of the bed, went straight up and bounced off the ceiling.
~My cross stitch was launched out of my hands and landed with the needle and thread dangling precariously above the floor vent which suddenly appeared to be ravenous and craving stitching supplies.
~My children stampeded (that is the perfect description of the racket those three made, lemme tell ya) down the hallway to see what all the ruckus was.
~I had an aneurysm.
Lea looked me straight in the eye with an expression that could only be described as "Betcha wish you'd just scritched my ears, huh?" and then casually hopped down off the bed and sauntered out of the room waving her tail like a victory banner.
Until I started singing "Cuz she's the waddler, yeah she's the waddler. She leans aleft, aright, aleft, aright!"
I don't think Lea appreciates Dion anywhere near as much as he deserves...
...and I should probably wear slippers tomorrow morning.
I'm usually quite the cat person. My cats drive everyone around me crazy but they're my girls and they make me smile most of the time. And if the two cats living inside the house aren't enough to keep us all on our toes, I've managed to accumulate a pack of furballs outside as well. One female, three males, and one kitten who still teleports across the neighborhood when I step outside. Oh, and the female's sister who shows up once a month or so if hunting squirrels doesn't pan out. As usual, Steve puts up with me and my need to take care of the poor starving mooches and his smile only falters once in awhile. (Normally about the same time his toes find some recycled catfood.)
Then there are times when I could quite happily donate my fuzzy little angels to a local petting zoo. Case in point: Meet Lea. She is, without a doubt, MY cat. She has the perfect attitude to match mine. Something along the lines of "Go ahead. Tease me. I will bite your nose off while you sleep."
Today she wanted my attention. I was occupied with the wolf I've been stitching on for going on two years. She didn't like this. Now, I was one of those well-behaved kids who found it impossible to walk past a bed covered in sleeping cats without taking a running leap into the air and screeching "BONZAAIIIII!" just before landing in the middle of them. Great fun! Unless you were one of the cats, I suppose.
Ever hear that old addage "What goes around comes around"?
Yeah. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I heard a feline rendition of a Comanche warcry a nanosecond before 10 pounds of fuzzbucket landed right smack in the middle of my cross stitch.
~Cali, who had still been sleeping at the foot of the bed, went straight up and bounced off the ceiling.
~My cross stitch was launched out of my hands and landed with the needle and thread dangling precariously above the floor vent which suddenly appeared to be ravenous and craving stitching supplies.
~My children stampeded (that is the perfect description of the racket those three made, lemme tell ya) down the hallway to see what all the ruckus was.
~I had an aneurysm.
Lea looked me straight in the eye with an expression that could only be described as "Betcha wish you'd just scritched my ears, huh?" and then casually hopped down off the bed and sauntered out of the room waving her tail like a victory banner.
Until I started singing "Cuz she's the waddler, yeah she's the waddler. She leans aleft, aright, aleft, aright!"
I don't think Lea appreciates Dion anywhere near as much as he deserves...
...and I should probably wear slippers tomorrow morning.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Who says crafts are pricey???
Bleah.... it's Saturday and instead of whiling away the hours with stitching and laziness, we decided to run errands.
The last of those errands was a quick stop at Hobby Lobby so I could run inside and grab some labels for my growing collection of beads and other small cross stitch embellishments. As soon as I said the words "Hobby Lobby" Steve cringed and looked like he was going to grab his wallet and run for his financial life. See, he thinks it's impossible for me to walk into a store that sells cross stitch supplies and not walk back out at least $100 lighter in the pocket. This is, of course, prepostorous. There have been many occasions where I've visited that store and picked up only the one skein of floss I need.
Turning around and going back in for the extras, or that new fabric, or that new chart, or those new colors... well that doesn't count cuz it wasn't the same trip.
Anyhoo!
Here we all go into Hobby Lobby. I make a beeline for the beading section in the hopes of finding labels designed for the little bead containers sold in that aisle with Steve and the kids trudging along behind me sporting expressions ranging from "Wow! That looks like I could break it into a gazillion pieces!" to "That's so cool. I want one of those." to "I wonder if I should just declare bankruptcy now and save some steps..."
Once there, I am dismayed - but not surprised - to find they don't carry labelling of any kind for craft storage containers, but there ARE some really pretty strings of beads and treasures that I just want to look at for a minute while I plot out what I could turn them into given unlimited funds and time. A constant monologue of "we can't afford this", "I don't really need this", "that can wait til another time", "I'm going to behave myself and set a good example of thriftiness and sacrifice for my children" scampers through my head while I run my fingers over beads and mumble to myself about how pretty they would look in that project I'm going to be starting for Sarah this fall.
If I get one or two bits at a time scattered over the weeks to come, it won't be so bad, right? Of course not!! We'll just add this strand to the cart. Oh, and that one's on clearance! Oh wait, these are ALL half price today! Woohoo!
Fifteen minutes later, I look down at the cart and about keel over. How in the world did it end up half full!! I know I didn't really pull that much stuff off the shelves! Did I? Maybe. It's possible I suppose. Okay... time to head for the register before Steve has a heart attack in the beading aisle. We'll just skip my birthday this year and call it even....
Yeah, that's it.
As I'm fleeing toward the front of the store I hear Steve telling me to wait and my crafty little wings wilt a bit. Now, if I really want all this stuff I can just dig in my heels and explain that to this man who seems to enjoy spoiling me rotten whether I deserve it or not. But as I'm gearing up to justify to myself why I should deplete our play money in such a way Steve gives me a sheepish grin, adds an instruction book for beadwork and metalcraft to the cart, and continues toward the registers. A nagging voice in the back of my head points out that inhaling and exhaling are kind of necessary in one's daily life, and I remember that I'm supposed to be going with him.
About $160 later, Steve has a new hobby.
*cackle*
The last of those errands was a quick stop at Hobby Lobby so I could run inside and grab some labels for my growing collection of beads and other small cross stitch embellishments. As soon as I said the words "Hobby Lobby" Steve cringed and looked like he was going to grab his wallet and run for his financial life. See, he thinks it's impossible for me to walk into a store that sells cross stitch supplies and not walk back out at least $100 lighter in the pocket. This is, of course, prepostorous. There have been many occasions where I've visited that store and picked up only the one skein of floss I need.
Turning around and going back in for the extras, or that new fabric, or that new chart, or those new colors... well that doesn't count cuz it wasn't the same trip.
Anyhoo!
Here we all go into Hobby Lobby. I make a beeline for the beading section in the hopes of finding labels designed for the little bead containers sold in that aisle with Steve and the kids trudging along behind me sporting expressions ranging from "Wow! That looks like I could break it into a gazillion pieces!" to "That's so cool. I want one of those." to "I wonder if I should just declare bankruptcy now and save some steps..."
Once there, I am dismayed - but not surprised - to find they don't carry labelling of any kind for craft storage containers, but there ARE some really pretty strings of beads and treasures that I just want to look at for a minute while I plot out what I could turn them into given unlimited funds and time. A constant monologue of "we can't afford this", "I don't really need this", "that can wait til another time", "I'm going to behave myself and set a good example of thriftiness and sacrifice for my children" scampers through my head while I run my fingers over beads and mumble to myself about how pretty they would look in that project I'm going to be starting for Sarah this fall.
If I get one or two bits at a time scattered over the weeks to come, it won't be so bad, right? Of course not!! We'll just add this strand to the cart. Oh, and that one's on clearance! Oh wait, these are ALL half price today! Woohoo!
Fifteen minutes later, I look down at the cart and about keel over. How in the world did it end up half full!! I know I didn't really pull that much stuff off the shelves! Did I? Maybe. It's possible I suppose. Okay... time to head for the register before Steve has a heart attack in the beading aisle. We'll just skip my birthday this year and call it even....
Yeah, that's it.
As I'm fleeing toward the front of the store I hear Steve telling me to wait and my crafty little wings wilt a bit. Now, if I really want all this stuff I can just dig in my heels and explain that to this man who seems to enjoy spoiling me rotten whether I deserve it or not. But as I'm gearing up to justify to myself why I should deplete our play money in such a way Steve gives me a sheepish grin, adds an instruction book for beadwork and metalcraft to the cart, and continues toward the registers. A nagging voice in the back of my head points out that inhaling and exhaling are kind of necessary in one's daily life, and I remember that I'm supposed to be going with him.
About $160 later, Steve has a new hobby.
*cackle*
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday WIP pic again.
No border this week. This time you get to look at a riveting glob of gray that is the beginning of a shot from the movie "It's a Wonderful Life".
I promise it will eventually look much better than that. In about four weeks time. For now, this gets set aside and I'll start working on project number three in my rotation: Call of the Wild. A design I've been stitching away at on and off for a year and a half now.
Yes, there's much more finished on the wolf than there is on either of these other two..... *mutters something unladylike about smart--- friends*
I promise it will eventually look much better than that. In about four weeks time. For now, this gets set aside and I'll start working on project number three in my rotation: Call of the Wild. A design I've been stitching away at on and off for a year and a half now.
Yes, there's much more finished on the wolf than there is on either of these other two..... *mutters something unladylike about smart--- friends*
Thursday, June 9, 2011
I went shopping today!
Yeah.
Shopping.
For a dress.
And shoes.
Me.
As if that isn't already a catastrophe waiting to happen, I had all my kids in tow as well. Now Sarah's old enough that the worst I have to deal with is a continual litany of "This is cute." "Can I get this?" "This isn't too expensive; only $78.99 after they discount it." *twitch*
While that grates on my nerves after awhile, I am starting to concede... grudgingly!... that the girl is considerably more aware of what is almost fashionable than I am. I have always been someone who is quite happy to wear jeans, boots, a baggy t-shirt, and a pony tail. The only thing about this that has changed is I've stopped wearing baggy t-shirts and now wear shirts that are actually my size. Sleeves seem to go on vacation starting around Easter and occasionally make it back into my wardrobe around Halloween. Awesome for avoiding farmer's tans. Not so awesome for anyone who stumbles into view of me. Although I am proud to say that I have never qualified to have my photo taken for the People of Walmart website.
So... Sarah does provide me with a preview of the typical preteen reaction to anything I might pull off the rack. For instance, if she looks at it and has to choke back a giggle then I put it back without saying a word. If she looks at it and gets that thoughtful "I could wear that!" look then I put it back. If she looks at it and gets the deer in headlights look then I've got a winner. After all, if the teen hates it then the outfit HAS to be suitable for someone with a bit maturity. Right?
Just nod and go about your business and no one gets hurt.
Yeah. I hate shopping under the best of conditions. But Heather and Hunter in a clothing store when I'm supposed to be concentrating on picking out clothing that isn't going to brand me a female Urkel can NEVER be described as the "best of conditions". One of me. Two of them. Hundreds of hiding places. Thousands of things that sparkle, shine, shimmer, and otherwise scream "come touch ME!!!"
I grabbed three dresses, a shirt, and three kids and crammed the whole shooting match into a fitting room. Lucky me. This particular fitting room has accoustics that would rival the Peterborough Cathedral.
First it was Sarah who wanted to try on the one dress she thought was cute. As she's shimmying the fabric over her head, I casually asked what size she'd picked.
Sarah: "Umm...I'm not sure. Oh, it's a 14."
Me: "In girls, right?"
Sarah: "No, women's."
Me: ....
After it was determined that we could fit three of her into the dress, it was my turn to try on the articles I'd picked out. What ensued was fifteen minutes of "You two better stop hitting each other." "Do NOT jump on that bench!" "Hunter get out of the dress." "Heather stop kissing your reflection." "No you can NOT open the door yet!" and my personal favorite "Everyone this side of the Atlantic is now well aware that it echoes in here. Stop shouting 'Hello Echo!'"
*twitch*
I picked out a dress. I paid for the dress. I argued with the salesperson about whether or not I really had to take my kids with me when I left the store. I drove the zoo home. I waited for Steve to come home. We dropped Sarah off at her church event and went back out so I could get shoes.
I perused sandals and found a simple pair that I liked.
I got in line and patiently waited to pay for them.
Steve chased Hunter down a random aisle.
Hunter giggled in glee.
Steve pulled Heather out of a stack of shoeboxes she'd been turning into a fort.
Heather whined and complained.
Steve threatened to "whoop Hunter's butt".
Hunter fussed.
Steve glared at Heather alot.
Heather glared back.
I never have to take the kids with me when I shop for myself again.
My work here is done.
Shopping.
For a dress.
And shoes.
Me.
As if that isn't already a catastrophe waiting to happen, I had all my kids in tow as well. Now Sarah's old enough that the worst I have to deal with is a continual litany of "This is cute." "Can I get this?" "This isn't too expensive; only $78.99 after they discount it." *twitch*
While that grates on my nerves after awhile, I am starting to concede... grudgingly!... that the girl is considerably more aware of what is almost fashionable than I am. I have always been someone who is quite happy to wear jeans, boots, a baggy t-shirt, and a pony tail. The only thing about this that has changed is I've stopped wearing baggy t-shirts and now wear shirts that are actually my size. Sleeves seem to go on vacation starting around Easter and occasionally make it back into my wardrobe around Halloween. Awesome for avoiding farmer's tans. Not so awesome for anyone who stumbles into view of me. Although I am proud to say that I have never qualified to have my photo taken for the People of Walmart website.
So... Sarah does provide me with a preview of the typical preteen reaction to anything I might pull off the rack. For instance, if she looks at it and has to choke back a giggle then I put it back without saying a word. If she looks at it and gets that thoughtful "I could wear that!" look then I put it back. If she looks at it and gets the deer in headlights look then I've got a winner. After all, if the teen hates it then the outfit HAS to be suitable for someone with a bit maturity. Right?
Just nod and go about your business and no one gets hurt.
Yeah. I hate shopping under the best of conditions. But Heather and Hunter in a clothing store when I'm supposed to be concentrating on picking out clothing that isn't going to brand me a female Urkel can NEVER be described as the "best of conditions". One of me. Two of them. Hundreds of hiding places. Thousands of things that sparkle, shine, shimmer, and otherwise scream "come touch ME!!!"
I grabbed three dresses, a shirt, and three kids and crammed the whole shooting match into a fitting room. Lucky me. This particular fitting room has accoustics that would rival the Peterborough Cathedral.
First it was Sarah who wanted to try on the one dress she thought was cute. As she's shimmying the fabric over her head, I casually asked what size she'd picked.
Sarah: "Umm...I'm not sure. Oh, it's a 14."
Me: "In girls, right?"
Sarah: "No, women's."
Me: ....
After it was determined that we could fit three of her into the dress, it was my turn to try on the articles I'd picked out. What ensued was fifteen minutes of "You two better stop hitting each other." "Do NOT jump on that bench!" "Hunter get out of the dress." "Heather stop kissing your reflection." "No you can NOT open the door yet!" and my personal favorite "Everyone this side of the Atlantic is now well aware that it echoes in here. Stop shouting 'Hello Echo!'"
*twitch*
I picked out a dress. I paid for the dress. I argued with the salesperson about whether or not I really had to take my kids with me when I left the store. I drove the zoo home. I waited for Steve to come home. We dropped Sarah off at her church event and went back out so I could get shoes.
I perused sandals and found a simple pair that I liked.
I got in line and patiently waited to pay for them.
Steve chased Hunter down a random aisle.
Hunter giggled in glee.
Steve pulled Heather out of a stack of shoeboxes she'd been turning into a fort.
Heather whined and complained.
Steve threatened to "whoop Hunter's butt".
Hunter fussed.
Steve glared at Heather alot.
Heather glared back.
I never have to take the kids with me when I shop for myself again.
My work here is done.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sleep... what's that?
I know I'm supposed to be quirky and this blog is supposed to be a weak excuse for humor, but today's not been a day rife with stuff worthy of making fun of. I think alot of the problem is that I'm just pretty tired.
I can't seem to sleep well anymore. I'm having constant nightmares or just waking up again for no apparent reason. When I'm not actively busy with something my mind wanders and I find myself reliving my mother's last day. Now I'm not one of those people who sits and mopes or dwells on misery. It takes entirely too much energy to avoid humor, entertainment, or life in general and I'm naturally lazy and content to laugh my way through the day. So laying in bed at night trying to go to sleep and suddenly realizing my bedroom has just transformed itself into a hospice room isn't usually how I choose to end my day. And it's making slumber one of those elusive carrots that dangles just out of reach while I try to decide if I really want to risk taking it.
I'm sorry. Like I said... I'm tired. And I babble when I'm tired.... or sore... or hungry... or distracted... or....
okay so I babble everytime I communicate.
Bed or bejeweled? Bed or bejeweled?
Hypercube anyone?
I can't seem to sleep well anymore. I'm having constant nightmares or just waking up again for no apparent reason. When I'm not actively busy with something my mind wanders and I find myself reliving my mother's last day. Now I'm not one of those people who sits and mopes or dwells on misery. It takes entirely too much energy to avoid humor, entertainment, or life in general and I'm naturally lazy and content to laugh my way through the day. So laying in bed at night trying to go to sleep and suddenly realizing my bedroom has just transformed itself into a hospice room isn't usually how I choose to end my day. And it's making slumber one of those elusive carrots that dangles just out of reach while I try to decide if I really want to risk taking it.
I'm sorry. Like I said... I'm tired. And I babble when I'm tired.... or sore... or hungry... or distracted... or....
okay so I babble everytime I communicate.
Bed or bejeweled? Bed or bejeweled?
Hypercube anyone?
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