2 bad things + a forecast

When you see that many trucks lined up in front of a house you know things are complicated. I'll share this much: the traffic in my driveway involved a hot water heater (and we have radiant heating and it's winter), carbon monoxide, drilling a hole in my basement wall to ventilate a small room, a partial power-shutdown, no water and a big bill.

The work began Wednesday, resumed at 6:45 Thursday morning until the wee hours

and continues as I type this today.

First a head lice scare and now this. I'm supposed to leave town around 4:30 to head to the Dells for a weekend with my girlfriends. A weekend we planned in December. A weekend I've anticipated for 3 long months. There will be wine, wonderful food, enormous amounts of laughter. Weeks ago I booked a Thermal Mud Wrap at a very chi-chi spa. I've coordinated meals for Team Testosterone for the weekend. I haven't been away from my family for any substantial length of time in over a year. I. Need. This. Weekend. Away. And now the weatherman says this shit is coming.

Regardless of what happens, I WILL be swilling wine by 9:00 tonight.

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off

Sure, we're spraying it to keep the mosquitoes from draining us every night.

My balance is off, too. I rolled my left ankle at karate and it's swollen up like an apricot on the side of my leg. It hurts when I bend it wrong. I know, I know. Quit bending it wrong.

I've signed off on sending Team Testosterone to parochial school. It was a decision we reached earlier this summer, but certain people deserved hearing the news in person, not via the grapevine. A tough call, I feel like I'm bailing on public education, never in a million years would I have thought I'd send my kids to parochial school. But that was when I was a teacher, a taxpayer, an average citizen. Now I'm a mom and it's become a personal choice. Factors weighing in included my philosophy about kids and learning and how the entire process should not be skill/drill but rather employ higher level thinking skills and develop their curiosity and talents. The public school is all about "How fast, how many?" and they like the kids to fit into a box, any kid who thinks outside of the box isn't encouraged or supported. This philosophy is driven in part by testing and in part by teachers to whom things have come easy. If I were an administrator, I'd like to see at least one B or C on a new teacher's transcript because it would demonstrate that they struggled at some point in their education. Struggle develops empathy and better teaching methods. The straight-A gang of teachers tend to be baffled by kids who struggle because they have no concept of what that means. They lump it as "lack of effort" or shrug their shoulders and write the kid off as a failure, but they don't think outside the damn box to address the issues. I believe in authentic assessment, testing kids to see if they understand the concepts. I'm seeing a lot of good things at the parochial school down the road, I want all three of my sons to have access to the same quality of education, regardless of their learning styles, strengths and weaknesses.

I also have three sons who think outside the box and I want that to be celebrated, not frustrated by their teachers. I like sending my kids to school in a uniform, I prefer the rigor of the curriculum at the parochial school and the administration over there kicks butt. A little liturgy every week is a small inconvenience when there's so much to be gained.

I'm still spouting off to the school board, however. The superintendent has finally presented the teachers with a contract. Box or no box, some of the terms of the contract are shitty. I can still support the public school even if I'm opting out of sending my kids to it.

I'm laying off the blog a bit, too. Regulars probably notice. It's summer. We're busy. Just like everyone else. And I'm trying to keep my kids away from TV/video games so I need to set a good example, right?

Now I'm off to clean the fridge where something smells a bit off. (Come on, you totally saw that coming.)

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how do the duggars do it?

Three kids running in three directions makes me feel a bit like I take two steps back for every step forward. And, of course, there's the cleaning (laundry, sweeping, mopping, wiping--not noses or butts--countertops and tables). And the freaking FEEDING. Good grief do they eat. All I do is buy food, prepare food, run the dishwasher and start the process all over again. Mr. G eats like seven times a day.

Yesterday I finished packing Mr. T for camp, cleaned up after the thunderstorm, tidied up a bathroom (unplugged toilet, replaced toilet paper roll, grabbed soggy towel tossed in corner and replaced with clean one, shrugged my shoulders at the dirty floor), checked emails, made breakfast, finished freezing a batch of strawberries and hustled Mr. G and Mr. B to summer school. I whipped up birthday party invitations for Mr. G's friends, got stamps, mailed them, dropped by the bank, swung through Subway for everyone's lunch, wrote a note for Speedy and drove Mr. T 2 hours Up North to camp.

After dropping Mr. T at camp, I returned home in time to grab my shopping list and bags. I drove to pick up Mr. G from karate camp, hit the grocery store and came home to unpack the groceries and toss food at Mr. G and Jax (because the dog likes dinner, too). Then we drove over to watch Mr. B finish his baseball practice, gather him, head to Mr. D's baseball game and shell out cash for concessions (everyone's hungry again). We got home, swam a bit, I gathered a ginormous pile of dirty laundry (after dumping out a small pile of clean laundry so I could use the basket) and everyone felt hungry for supper. I tossed a second load in the wash and ran the dishwasher at 9:30 and finally commanded Mr. G and Mr. B to bed (with stories, prayers, etc.).

Oh, Mrs. Duggar, how do you do it? You have exponentially more kids AND a TV show. AND a blog, apparently. I'm feeling inadequate in a mighty way these days and I don't even watch the Duggars (or any other TV because there isn't time).

Yet somehow I get the feeling that having more kids isn't the answer for me.

I'd piss and moan about the state of chaos here, but two kids are up and want food and I need to race a month's worth of recycling to the curb so I can fit the Momvan in the garage again...

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milestones

Saw the first dragonfly of summer last night while lying on the grass watching Mr. T's soccer game.
Got a new fridge and Team Testosterone seems especially pleased that the ice dispenser works (our old one had been broken for years). Everyone is drinking ice water, bellying up to the tap like frat boys at a beer keg. If they start dumping ice water through rubber tubes while yelling "Chug! Chug!" we might have to hold an intervention.
What's LinkedIn? I keep getting invited to join... I'm not inclined to become a new member of anything these days, so I delete the invitations. Is this like FaceBook and I'm not really missing anything great? Reassure me, readers...
At lunch today I remarked that a whole hour had passed without any drama or anything breaking down. Then Speedy and I headed to the back yard to build the pergola I'd ordered. Of course the entire hardware package was missing from the box.
T-3 hours until Bumble Book Club. This mama needs a stiff drink and an injection of estrogen time.

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I have confiscated their man juice

because I'm terrified they'll keep using it. A while back, Mr. D gave Mr. B and Mr. G an old bottle of cologne, AKA at Chez Green Girl as "Man Juice." Team Testosterone is known for many things, but subtlety is not among them. In their view of the world, if a little is good, more is great! Mr. B and Mr. G embraced this step into manhood with enthusiasm. Hence the fact that my entire house reeks like a freshman men's college dormitory on a Friday night before all the residents head out to troll the bars. The odor of musk and top notes of sandalwood and amber has saturated their pores--and their clothes, their bedding, the floors, even the walls. I imagine this must be what living in a male brothel must smell like.

My nasal passages are burning, my eyes are stinging and my lungs feel tight with the effort to breathe. Before they could unleash more of this WMD, I demanded they hand it over. "Go get it. NOW!"

Mr. B obediently ran upstairs, found the bottle of "Brut Desire Noir" and gave it to me.

"I'm putting this away in a safe place until you're old enough to use it responsibly." Turning on my heel, I strode towards my bathroom to deposit the bottle of Man Juice on a high shelf. When I returned, Mr. B still stood in the living room, his blue eyes wide, his sweet round face troubled.

"Mom, I thought you'd like the smell of Man Juice. Dad says girls like it and you're a girl."

"Oh, buddy. I am a girl, but you're using way too much. Just a single squirt a day is enough. You don't have to marinate in it. Sheesh, kid, you've probably got girls as far away as Texas sniffing the air, wondering where that smell is coming from."

People, it's January. I can't open my windows to air out the house so there's nothing to do for it but let the odors die a natural death with diluted white vinegar and a thorough bed washing. Damn Man Juice. Almost as bad as head lice. (Though not quite.)

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I need bigger pockets for the junk in my trunk

I'm a genetic anomaly among my pear-shaped German-American brethren. They're all thighs and hips while this baby's got back. I appreciate that I wasn't endowed with a hefty bosom like many of my kin, and I guess I'm glad to not fret over the size of my thighs, but my tush--oh my J-Lo, super-sized tush. I think my bottom is the result of some recessive gene pool in my ancestry--do the Scottish have big butts? The Italians? Dutch? Irish? Cherokee? Or perhaps my tuckus is the result of squatting in the garden to pick beans and pull weeds. And a regimen of lunges and kicks in karate class. And regular diet of chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cake and apple pie. Whatever the cause, I need pants because soon it'll be too cold for shorts.

According to a recent survey*, this is my shape.

Wherever my rump came from, I generally don't notice it too much. It's behind me. I'm sitting on it, not looking at it. Or I'm standing in front of it, ignoring it. Until it's time to buy pants.

The new trend is skinny--skinnyskinnyskinny. I've had good luck at Old Navy in the past few years, so I tried on a pair of their skinny ankle-length khakis. I had more wrinkles bagging the fabric from buttocks to knees than a Hollywood plastic surgeon has filled in with Botox in the past decade. It looked tacky. And no matter what cut of skinny pants I tried, I kept seeing the same problem--nasty bunching and creasing.

So I grabbed an old, tried and true trend--the cargo pant. Old Navy, what were your designers thinking? Look at the pockets on these pants:


Small pockets + Green Girl's booty = GINORMOUS Looking Booty

Old Navy, we're through. I'm quitting you. Packing up my junk and moving on. And I'm taking that dream of wearing skinny pants and putting it in the same place as my dream of becoming a back up singer for a Motown Girl Group. But I will find new pants ... a pair of cargo pants Just My Size with big pockets and plenty of room in back.

Spill it, reader. What's the worst thing you have to shop for?


*In a blind 2010 survey, 1 participant provided a response. He gave it some thought before answering.

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putting the FU in "fun!"

I learned from yesterday's comments that my experiences with chewing gum aren't unique...Fawndear's takes the cake though. I'm laying bets that whoever invented chewing gum wasn't a mom. Or anyone who cleans up after other people.

Upstairs a battle has broken out between three brothers, one who is being the World's Biggest Whiny Baby, one who is irritated by the WBWB and screaming at him like Chef Ramsay on prime time television, and one who is wisely siding with the bigger and older brother of the two. That Mr. B, he's diplomatic because he really wants to play Hotel for Dinosaurs. And now? Now I am typing this with WBWB's ear piercing screams in my left ear while he exudes all nature of facial slobber from his eyes, mouth and nose. While Chef Ramsay Jr. continues his verbal tirade of abuse from above. If you don't stop crying I'm going to punch you in the head! And people think Hell's Kitchen is just some contrived reality TV.

So it's in this moment that I think of the thousands of lucky bloggers descending on Blogher this weekend and a bunch of my "real life" girlfriends who are headed to the Twin Cities for a weekend of urban frolicking. But I'm not complaining. I wouldn't have anything to wear anyway. Fun, like art, is subjective anyway, right?

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despicable things

fruit flies
soil so dry that it flies into my nose, eyes, mouth and ears when I work with it
this dry, cool summer weather--WTF? hello, it's JULY!
crispy, crunchy grass underfoot--cannot go barefoot--gargh!
thistles
the overpowering odor of fabric softener (a product I never buy nor use)
attention whores
companies who "greenwash" their products and practices. (PepsiCo? water in plastic bottles is NEVER a 'green choice')
divisive, vindictive, hate-mongering politicians (see "attention whores")
back-to-school shopping


Spill it reader, what's got you scowling lately?

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cruel

* I woke up to this today. Snow. On my daffodils.
* The Happyland Park & Rec has begun scheduling practices--it's April. I found out last night that Mr. B has t-ball practice tomorrow night from 6:30-7:30 for crying out loud. We've not even wrapped up our winter activities--there's no friggin' room on our calendar for more stuff right now!
* Speaking of the Happyland Park & Rec, apparently when you say, "I'll help with youth soccer, but I can't coach because a) I have a younger son who'll be sitting on the sidelines and b) my husband is already coaching Cadet League baseball with our older son on the exact same night as Mr. B's soccer games--so I can't coach, but I'm happy to help" it translates into "Sure! I'd love to coach!" They're expecting me to show up Saturday morning to get trained and pick up my roster and gear. Uh, people? I'm already busy at 9:00 Saturday attending family class at karate. I'm NOT COACHING. And if you keep misinterpreting the word "help" I'll pull my kid from soccer altogether. Just sayin'.
* Mr. T wants a cell phone--for $10 I can buy a flip phone and for $20 I can load it with minutes. Then he can text! And make phone calls! I told him he has to start actually using a phone before I'll buy him his own. Duh. That's so unfair! Mr. T? Life's not fair. Deal with it.
* Mr. G wants to sleep in our bed every night lately. I make him sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor. He winds up half out of the bag, crunched up against the edge of my dresser. Uncomfortable? Yes. Cruel? So he says. So go sleep in your own bed in your room, I helpfully suggest.
* The main 4-lane highway that runs through our entire area is slated for road work all summer. That means a clogged artery inconveniencing everybody in my area through November. With no real alternate route around it at most points. Which will then mean a lot of extra traffic on my current alternate routes that I take to avoid said highway. Ugh.

What indignities are you suffering in your neck of the woods?

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equilibrium

Bane:
* Tailgaters.
* 2 hours in a dentist chair, complete with drilling and grinding yesterday.
* The ache in the left side of my jaw.
* Naughty children.
* The guy Mr. D called to discuss rolling our lawn telling Mr. D he'd rather talk to him, even though Mr. D explained I am in charge of most outdoor projects and we make decisions 50/50. What's with the guys in this town? I imagine they sit in a row at the tavern talking about my awesomeness and how intimidating it is...poor Mr. D has to pick up all negotiation duties as long as my awesomeness remains so legendary.
* Getting punched several times in my face guard last night while sparring.
* And Mr. K's kick to my sternum didn't feel too good either.

Blessing:
* Finding most of what I usually buy on sale at the grocery store.
* Someone lending me the perfect book.
* Mr. G waking up and asking, "Is my behaviorment over mom?" (I like that word--a hybrid of 'punishment' which is what he experienced all day Tuesday and 'behavior' which was the lesson we were learning. Not listening and obeying mommy = No TV, No computer, No treats and watching mommy & Mr. T eat all the donuts from the grocery store. Methinks he gets it.)
* All the nice people at Mr. D's office who ordered Boy Scout geraniums from Mr. T.
* Getting a babysitter last minute so I could spar last night.
* Sunshine this morning.
* Getting to catch up with Nicole while waiting through our kids' karate class.
* Mr. D's poker night--I had total control over the remote.

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just what a doctor might order

It's been cold. Chappy, itchy, bleak and lethargic cold--I'm rapidly morphing into an unproductive, miserable creature. I'm going out of town with my girlfriends this weekend. I expect there will be a lot of this:


A fair amount of this:

Plenty of this:

But if all of that wasn't enough, I've booked myself this:




Detoxifying Thermal Mud Wrap 60 Min.
This intense treatment uses a symphony of organic ingredients high in minerals and trace elements and gives the body a powerful natural detoxification by opening the pores, eliminating toxins and increasing circulation. While the thermal mud penetrates, you’re treated to a delicious face and scalp massage. A tingling Vichy rinse with seven shower heads removes the mud. The honeydew moisturizer body massage after will re-hydrate and nourish, leaving the skin soft, supple and glowing within.


I expect stellar results before I return to the grind Sunday afternoon.

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Raw nose, sore throat

The head cold struck. Mr. T is asleep upstairs voluntarily after I called him in sick today. I'm miserable on the couch next to a box of tissues. Mr. B is starting to sniffle. Christmas is 24 days away and I'm feeling horrible and inadequate. Why do I think I'm to get all the work done in a single day? It's unrealistic and I know that, yet here I am looking outside at the snow drifts and worrying about Christmas card orders and getting other holiday-related errands run.

We've a tree--trimmed and sturdy enough NOT to crash over. My house is dusted and decorated (as much as I'm willing to decorate). My Etsy orders are done as of last night and I've got only a couple online purchases to complete. I even made some caramel corn. But there is looms--the 25th of December. Goading me. Challenging me. Making me feel like I have to be busy, busy, busy. But I haven't the energy to drag my tail off the couch, let alone drive the Momvan around town.

Doesn't this inspire you to head over to Eco Women: Protectors of the Planet to read what holiday decorating tips I wrote up? Actually, we'll have great holiday stuff all week, so be sure to drop by.

Coming tomorrow: I'm giving away books & other goodies!

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Guess who cleaned the upstairs bathroom today?

Dear Research & Development Team at Proctor & Gamble:

You developed many useful household products over the years. I'm a HUGE fan of the disposable diaper, facial tissue and bar soap.

You've also developed many useless household products over the years. Plug-in air fresheners? If I have a nasty stink in my house, opening a window or setting out a dish of vinegar will do. Likewise, if my furniture smells, I can spray it with water and vinegar or water and Borax. I call that "Better Living Through Fewer Toxic Chemicals."

May I recommend you focus your efforts on addressing the following area? Busy parents would love a children's toothpaste that evaporates into the air instead of drying harder than concrete and requiring a pick axe, chisel and hammer to dislodge from a bathroom countertop. I'd be mighty grateful.

Yours Truly,
Green Girl


***
Dear Fisher Price:
I'm a huge fan--I grew up playing with little wooden Little People, a shape sorter and this awesome phone:

You've spent scads of money developing "learning toys" that make learning "fun." By plugging my children into your computer programs, I never need to pull a kid onto my lap and read out loud again to expose them to letters, sounds, and the joy of stories! Your back-seat DVD player alleviates all stress on me to engage in games of "I Spy" or "Count the Cows" or even mother/son conversations. Now my children ride contentedly entertained with DVDs doing the talking for me! You've freed me up to talk on my cell phone or text-message my homegirls while driving across town to Target. You've even come up with an Art Center to make drawing and coloring FUN! Improving on blank paper and crayons or markers was something every mother has yearned for since the dawn of time. I'm not sure how you thought to replace crayons and coloring books with a computer-simulated learning tray, but THANK GOODNESS you did! We can all agree that drawing and coloring using our imaginations, crayons and paper was a real drag.

I have a brilliant suggestion for your next hot new "learning toy": a potty training target practice game that reinforces good aim with musical tunes and bright lights and discourages bad aim with a small electrical charge administered through the child's feet. I envision this colorful "learning toy" made out of rubber matting and plastic, able to hook over any standard sized toilet seat. To activate the game, a little boy must hit the center of the toilet bowl/target with a steady stream of urine. Sensors placed on the floor and around the outside of the toilet bowl's rim will detect dribbling, sprinkling and blatant refusal to take steady aim. These sensors will activate the electrical charge that will "zap" the child's feet, which will be reinforced by Diego's voice telling the child, "Oops! Try again! You want to aim for the center!"

Parents and caregivers of male children will be excited to see their child's improvement as they quickly achieve 100% accuracy while peeing. My market research suggests that this "learning toy" can be used with boy children up to the age of 15! Several versions might be purchased over the years as a child grows in size and ability--I can see a sports-themed potty training game for older boys with Peyton Manning's voice rebuking poor aim. For boys ages 5-10, I envision a Spongebob Squarepants game where the child tries to "soak Spongebob" and make him sink to the ocean floor, and perhaps a racecar themed game similar to carnival games where steady aim and pressure moves a racecar along a track on a screen positioned along the front side of the toilet tank.

I'm looking forward to buying your new line of "Piss and Play Learning Toys" for my sons next Christmas!

Yours Truly,
Green Girl

***
Day 5 of my 29-Day Giving Challenge: Brought neighbors' recycling and garbage barrels up to their house in the pouring rain, saving them the hassle of getting all wet and having to climb into the ditch at the end of the driveway when they got home from work last night.

Day 6 of my 29-Day Giving Challenge: Donated toys to a 3rd grade teacher at Happyland Elementary School.

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Green Girl demonstrates Grinch-like tendencies

This just in: Green Girl has epiphany about why her shoulders tense, her head aches, her gut clenches and her eyes glaze over when people start talking about Christmas. It took her years of soul-searching and confusion to come to terms with this primal reaction towards a season filled with joy and jolliness, but when the snow flew this weekend and her children began clamoring to deck their halls with boughs of holly and trim a Christmas tree? She suddenly understood why she instinctively began snapping at them (even taking a small nip out of Mr. G's cute left ear).

Two words, people, two words.

Decorating.

Shopping.

Two things Green Girl despises and two things required/demanded/expected of Christmastime. Imagine a major holiday that required scrubbing toilets, getting cavities filled at the dentist's and deciphering tax forms--that's kind of what December looks like through Green Girl's goggles. Now that she's narrowed down the source of her misery, the challenge remains: How does one "do" Christmas without shopping and decorating?

Please don't reply, "Good luck with that."

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Flinstones, fear & flies

Thank you, Saucy, for the idea about the vaccum cleaner--I've sucked the flies to their doom. And thanks, Eurolush, but I think I'll pass on the gigantic German spiders. I'm a little bugged out for now. We had a hard frost last night, so my fly problem should end soon. The hard frost also means getting after some serious garden clean up. Fall is definitely here.

Apple muffins ready to sell...

The PTA event is gradually shaping up. I've drummed up 5 more tables, bringing me closer to the number required to keep a gym full of vendors happy. I hit the grocery store last night and this morning began filling the laundry baskets with the essential gear (extension cord? check. extra tablecloths? check. tape? check. money box? check.). I'm very grateful for having sons--planning a wedding would probably put me straight over the edge, and I'm certain my future DILs will appreciate my hands off policy. Mothers of the groom need only wear beige, pay the bar tab and show up smiling. That I can do! (Unless they choose to marry insipid bimbos, but that's a worry for another decade!)

The political campaigning was very stressful--making cold calls is among the most terrifying and horrid things I've yet to endure. Each time I dialed and got no answer, I was so relieved. Every GOP voter but 2 hung up on me before I could thank them for their time, several Democratic supporters railed into my ear about the economy, assuming, I guess, that I had some sort of pull with Senator Obama. I sat in a line-up of college girls making call after call to senior citizens, trying to sound respectful and friendly. After making 54 calls I went to talk to one of the coordinators and informed him I'd do anything, anything besides phone calls. I'd eat glass, scrub their bathroom, whatever. He gave me a look of great disappointment--this college kid who still lives at home, this passionate, idealistic kid untainted by age, experience and a general disenchantment with our nation's leaders. He told me that they needed callers to canvass the voters, but I was not to be swayed. I left with a stack of postcards I promised to write to encourage women voters (targeted because they are shut-in, living in rural areas). I'm to report with my hand-written postcards next Wednesday. I plan to bring snacks for the volunteers, too, to help boost morale. Calling people for a political campaign is just as nasty as calling volunteers for a PTA bake sale.

***
We all have those boxes, some of mine are in the basement, shoved behind Christmas decorations and a suitcase rarely used. A couple are in the corner of the highest shelves in the hall closet. The boxes of remnants, reminders and reminiscence. I came across one the other day and opened it on a fluke--I'd no idea what I'd find, in fact I thought it was school supplies. Instead I found this:

When I'd just started 2nd grade my parents moved our family to Thermopolis, Wyoming. We drove back and forth between Sheboygan, Wisconsin and our new home a couple times each year and we always stopped at the same truck stops for food (I ordered the shrimp platter at one particular truck stop, counting the shrimp every time to see if I really had 21 as the menu promised). We paid regular homage at Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, the Corn Palace, Wall Drug and even Laura Ingalls Wilder's homestead as my father tried to keep the journey more interesting for his 2 daughters stuck in our Pontiac's back seat.

Life on the road was a way of life for us because nothing is near or convenient in Wyoming. We did our Christmas shopping in Billings, Montana, we drove 40 minutes to a burg called Kirby to eat hamburgers almost every weekend. The stifling air in the car, the tan vinyl seats, the invisible line dividing me from my younger sister, the steady flow of mountain ranges and plains passing my window dominate my childhood memories.

Then I came across this mug the other day while going through a box of stuff my mom had packed and set aside years ago. I hadn't seen this mug in 25 years and I couldn't believe my eyes when I unwrapped it from old newspaper and held it in my hands. One of my favorite places on the journey across the midwest was Bedrock City, a life-sized replica of the Flinstones--we always stopped and posed for pictures in Fred's car, next to a giant Dino, and outside the Rubble's front door. The Flinstones was one of my favorite cartoons and Bedrock City charmed me every time. I completely forgot that my dad had shelled out cash for family souveniers on one stop.

Intrigued, I went online to see if Bedrock City still existed almost 30 years later. Guess what? Forty years after it's conception, you can still go there. Really! Go there! How cool is that? Do you know what kind of road trip I'm planning to take Team Testosterone on in a few years?

What crazy memory have you come across lately?

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Adjustments

I'd like things to be more like this...

I'm not their slave girl!

Team Testosterone began their summer schedule and, like underwear creeping upwards, it's requiring some adjustment on my part. The bachelors enjoy long days of leisure--some TV, minimal chores, a lot of playing between sandbox, swing set and trampoline with the hose. They stay awake until 9:00 p.m. Mr. G wakes up at 6:30. Mr. B and Mr. T wake up at 8:30. They require constant and continual feeding. I'm also obligated to encourage (read: force) Mr. T to work on things like math and practice his guitar.

This means that I have to start:
* shopping for 5 daily meals/snacks--children home all day tend to eat all day.
* doing loads more laundry--as I type this, 3 loads are drying outside. This whole sandbox/water hose thing is messy.
* vacuuming and mopping daily (see above).
*cracking the whip--I'm not their slave girl, they can put away their dirty dishes, snack foods, toys and clothes. They can also assemble themselves for soccer games and trips to the library. I'll tie shoes and shout orders.
* changing bedding more than every other week. They go to bed filthy and if they're not getting in the shower every night, the sheets need washing.
* figuring out when I'm getting my free time (read: blogging, editing, writing time). Between 9:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. is not sufficient.
* cleaning bathrooms more regularly. They're all boys and they have terrible aim. And for some reason Mr. G won't flush his poops down, so that's another nasty surprise every day depending on when we find it.
* striking the balance between leisure time and enrichment and instilling discipline. I don't want to organize every minute of their day--I'm a big believer in free time and boredom and cardboard boxes and creativity. I'm also a big believer in a little bit of planning.
* refereeing all day long instead of after school only. I hope we'll start with more yelling and time-outs and after a fashion require less Mom Interference.
* pacing the day so we are prepared for 5:15 t-ball games and 1:00 library programs. Going from a tightly scheduled school year to the looser, but still weekly summer schedule means watching the clock differently.

I love this gang, but having them around all day every day all of a sudden takes my breath away.

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WANTED!

Found: a pile of acorns, fresh-picked from somebody's muddy yard.

"Blue-Eyed B." The perp.

"Scarface"--an accomplice to the acorn & antler theft
not a hardened criminal like his older brother.

Dear Neighbors:
I apologize for Bachelor # 2 and Bachelor # 3 scurrying through your yards yesterday and scavenging for whatever wasn't nailed down. We tried to return your antlers, flower pot and decorative woodland creatures to their proper place. We kept the acorns. The Bachelors have undergone anti-theft treatment and rehabilitation, mostly composed of a stern lecture and encouragement to only take nuts and leaves in the future from your properties. If you want the acorns back, just let us know.
Sincerely Yours,
Green Girl & Co.


Dear Pre-K Drop-off Drivers:
It is customary to park your car in a parking place in the parking lot when leaving your vehicle to accompany your child into the building. To leave a parked car in the drop-off lane creates gridlock for those parked behind you. In the future, should you need to chaperone Little Timmy through the school entrance, please do so from the parking LOT.
Please do not double-park to "run into the building for a quick minute." And do not dress and re-pack your child's backpack once you've approached the front of the drop-off line. That should have been done before you left your house. In the event of an emergency, please use the parking lot to dress your child and re-pack backpacks.
Finally, once your child has left your vehicle and is safely near the building, please drive ahead so that the line of cars behind you can deposit their children and drive away. There is no need to sit and stare at the building forlornly. Really.
Thank you,
The Bi-otch Who Laid on Her Horn Yesterday


Dear Shop Owner,
You may have noticed the softening economy and it's a crazy guess that gift shops selling kitsch are probably suffering in this current climate. However, when Sparkadoodles goes out of business, do not blame your location on College Ave. or metered parking or people's lack of appreciation for your wares. I, for one, think your shop has great stuff--but I can purchase every single item you sell at an online store without encountering an unfriendly and even (yes, I shall tell you) downright rude sales clerk. Your clerk did not greet me when I entered the store, in fact she only said four words to me the entire time I browsed. When I flipped out my checkbook to pay for a $50 purchase, I didn't argue against your "No Checks" policy. I did, however, leave the items at the cash register and head for the door because your clerk said to me, "We don't take checks." Not "Sorry, I know this is really inconvenient." Or "Would you like me to hold these until you can come back?" Or even, "I know, it's a crazy policy. I don't know why this store won't take checks." Rude and unfriendly behavior only serves to further alienate a frustrated customer.
Good Luck on Your Going Out of Business Sale,
The Lady Who Only Had Checks and Now Will Turn All of Her Friends and Acquaintances Against Shopping at Sparkadoodles.

P.S. Scatter Joy! sells everything you sell AND the lady working there is a billion times nicer.

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Melonomics & Shopping

Three stores visited and no new rubber boots for three boys. Add in a mommy who hates to shop and her complete disgust with big box retailers who push bikinis and garden supplies on Wisconsin in January and have 4 pairs of uninsulated rubber rain boots (3 pink, 1 camo) on clearance in March when the temps are still in the 30's and the snow has just begun to melt and you have the recipe for a breakdown.

Thank God for the Internet. And the UPS guy. Click. Click. Clickity-click. We'll have 3 pairs of rubber rain boots in the sizes and colors of our preference and it took 5 minutes. As opposed to the hour spent fruitlessly driving around town. According to my math, the $15 I'd have saved buying the boots at a big box were spent on my time and gas (my time shopping is worth $10 an hour--it's what I'd pay a babysitter per hour and I had all 3 with me) so spending $15 more for exactly what I need and want is a really good deal. Melonomics, people.

The UPS guy also brought my Title Nine order on Friday (and consequently brought sunshine and joy to my day). My new Horny Toad yoga pants are so comfortable that I wore them all weekend, taking them off only to sleep and to go to church. Guess what I'm wearing again this morning? They're so comfy that it's like I'm naked. Seriously. That comfortable. I love them. And according to Melonomics, they've cost me $7 a day so far--I predict I'll owe Horny Toad for the pleasure of wearing these pants at the rate I'm wearing them.

Regarding my Zum soap from Indigo Wild:

Mr. D: What's up with that new soap? Where did you get it?
Me: Why? Do you like it?
Mr. D: (expletive) it looks like a hunk of meatloaf sitting in the shower.
Me: It's Patchouli. I love it.
Mr. D: (grumbling) It looks like meatloaf. How much did that cost?
Me: (heading upstairs under the premise of important errand) A thousand dollars.

Methinks Mr. D is not a Zum convert. Yet. But what makes me happy, makes him happy by default. And by applying Melonomics to the equation, he soon learns that the soap was a bargain. (It's tricky math here, so bear with me.) Cost of Zum order: $37.50. Enough soap, lip balm and hand cream to last through the summer. Cost of hair coloring, which I don't do: $60/month. See? The soap was a bargain!

P.S. Tootsie Farklepants has an awesome post on playdates today. Go check it out! It's an excellent offshoot of the idle parenting conversation Suburban Correspondent has started (in my head, anyway...).

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Finding Forgiveness

It's hard for me today. I had grand plans. I'd put aside my own interests for the sake of Team Testosterone and today was to be my turn. Cupcakes and cards were ready for delivery at day care, preschool and 3rd grade classrooms. Playdate was arranged for Mr. B's morning shift (reciprocity for the 2 I hosted last week). Mr. D is back after his vacation and should be busy at The Office all day.

I had dreams, readers. Dreams of cross-country skiing, blogging, writing, reading, finishing a project for my boss. I was going to run a carload to the thrift shop without passengers doubting my choices of what I'm getting rid of. I was going to eat leftover Book Club food ALONE.

And then they called a Snow Day.

I am not alone.

I am searching into the crevices of my heart for the means to forgive the bus company and the superintendent who decided to WRECK MY DAY OFF.

Until I can find the grace, I will play Trouble, watch Mary Poppins, prepare snacks and meals for everyone and keep visualizing my Happy Place. (Yes, it involves George and his Italian villa by the sea.)

***

As a postscript, I am blessed to have such a terrific Book Club. I think it works because we don't all know each other outside of reading the same book. One woman invited people who she knew were readers to unite--a fellow soccer mom, a neighbor, PTA president at the school where she worked, a fellow hockey mom. At the core, we enjoy each other's company, enjoy discussing the books, and look forward to our monthly meeting.

The puppy chow, Chex mix and sour-cream-chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and sprinkles went over well. As did the Three-Pepper Bruschetta and the cheeses. I found an Erath Pinot Gris that everyone raved about (I'm buying more--my tongue could not reach the bottom of the bottle to get the last drops). We all agreed that the book was chilling and stylistically amazing.

These things make me feel satisfied and happy. I'll add them to the Italian villa.

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Fulfillment

Head cold, aching muscles, and Mr. G's nightmare keeping me up last night aside, I'm a fulfilled gal this morning.

Frank Deford was lovely. But no, Mrs. G, I didn't kiss him. Didn't even come close.

Our seats were in the middle of a jam-packed banquet hall and it was obvious that my predictions were correct--99% of the people were there to see Aaron Kampman. They were not disappointed, he did a fine job speechifying. And Bob Gibson, his speech and presence alone made the entire evening memorable.

Then Frank Deford took the stage.

**sigh**

He has such a lovely voice, and most of the people who didn't have a singular clue about his greatness hushed up and after a few moments started to look surprised. He was funny. He was provocative. He was charming and winsome and full of great stories and observations.

He told us that "men do not watch TV because there's something on. They watch TV to see what else is on."

He bemoaned the statistics that indicate 2/3 of college students are now girls and we need to balance our emphasis on academics AND sports with our sons so they don't fall behind. And he celebrated the accomplishments of women, both in sports and in other fields, making it a point to name again those young ladies who had won scholarships that night.

He shared memories of sports legends like Bubba Smith and Tommy Lasorda and Al McGuire and Billie Jean King.

He provided his analysis on why teamwork is the most valuable experience to be had from sports--and why working together keeps our local teams, clubs, organizations and communities great.

Listening to him in person was as satisfying an experience as hearing Frank McCourt speak 7 years ago--another great voice and gifted storyteller. I don't think anyone left disappointed. In fact, the surprised expressions of those around me morphed into sheer pleasure midway through Frank Deford's talk.

It's a good thing to anticipate something so very much and feel genuinely contented afterward.

And then I got to hear his tribute to Sir Edmund Hillary this morning on NPR--it was like finding one more tiny present at the toe of your stocking Christmas morning when you thought all the presents had been opened.

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