I've got spurs that jingle jangle

"Now in days thiers more global trade then ever between u.s.a and the other nations such as europe, asia and south america." -taken directly from my Global Marketing class discussion.

Snapped

I was taking a couple pictures of miscellaneous things while Jordan napped today. Dylan was extra cheery, so I got one of his beautiful face. Snap.








Then, I walked through the kitchen to go outside, pausing to admire the clock and wall background combination. Snap.







At the front porch, I noticed the rocking chairs were chipping. I started to think that I would need to repaint them next summer, then deciding that I like them better weathered. Snap.








My eyes wandered to the front door, where I noticed that I still had a wreath on my door from spring, and I knew I had one for the fall (I'm no animal, I'll have you know) So, I walked towards the basement (where all seasonal stuff is stashed) and saw the little yellow "pull" for the basement doors. Snap.





The very moment my foot stepped onto the concrete, I dropped my camera, sending it directly to its untimely demise.

These were the last images caught by my beloved camera. The entire lens is bent and dented in. It won't turn on, collapse, let me view images....nothing. I was able to get the pictures off using my (not-so-stupid-now), overpriced-but-needed-it-for-work, fancy-dancy printer.

It sounds ridiculous- most likely very materialistic- I don't care. I am devastated.

It's Just the Old Lady Smell, Honey.

On foggy days, I use the magic of the rear defroster to get the dew off the back window. I just like a nice, clean window, okay? On said rear window is a sticker that was applied by my Great Aunt Ethel, about 5 years ago, when she owned the car. This sweet old (99 years old) woman, who wore tailored jackets and lived in a small neighborhood for most of her life, apparently belonged to the NRA. She placed the token NRA sticker on the back window to show her enduing support. I am not too sure that she even knew what the NRA is. Probably not.

I bought the car from Ethel's estate when she died last year, and got a giggle thinking about her driving around in the car with the sticker, so I left it on in her memory. Plus, I think it gives me some street cred in my parts.

As we made our trip to the store, I turned on my rear defroster to rid of the morning dew. When we arrived at the store, Dylan informs me that my car smells. Whatever, I have three air fresheners, but the Chicken McNugget smell takes a while to come out, you know?

However, while I was unbuckling Jordan from his cage, excuse me-car seat, I looked up to see the NRA sticker fully engulfed. The sticker caught fire from the defroster, probably because the sticker was so old and dried out. I did get the sticker fire out, but can you just imagine what a glory it looked like-- a shiny, sleek, white car, blazing down the street-kids wiggling around, waving to each car- everyone inside oblivious to the small camp fire in the back window. Insert theme song from Dukes of Hazzard.

Third door on the left

A blogger search led one person from Hicksville, New York to my blog.

No, I did not make that up.

Here are the exact search words: "i unfortunately had to poop bathroom"

Yep.

Kick me in the shins. Please.

After passing through the hands of four generations, I have successfully ruined a family treasure. My Pyrex bowl smashed to the ground, shattering in a million pieces and mixed with bits of leftover chicken pot pie.

Nice, huh?

When it smashed, Mark couldn't figure out why I was sobbing on the kitchen floor when I should have been downstairs bailing buckets of water out the cellar. And when I say "sobbing," what I really mean is that I was uncontrollably flailing on the ground, thrashing my arms and legs around in hopes that someone would think I was rabid and put me out of my misery.

Ahem.

Honestly, I would rather have smashed each and every one of my dishes than lose the bowl. I would've killed my *gasp* coffee maker a million times over before breaking my beloved bowl.

Let this be a lesson to my family- do not give me anything of value. Ever.
_______________________________________________________________

*An update on the flooding- we believe the rain has had its last hurrah, and it should only rain bits and pieces though the day. The people along the river have a few more days of worry while they wait for river levels to peak. That won't happen until Thursday night because of the water coming in from other states. Although we were pumping water out of the basement until 2 this morning, we obviously had a walk in the park compared to some people in our area.

We were lucky with the minimal damage we had. Sadly, among the casualties, I did lose an Old Navy black flip flop in the rapid current in my back yard. It was fight or flight, and the shoe chose to fight.




Photo: Old Navy

Best Advice Ever

Taking my children to the grocery store can make even the most calm, saintly person leave, wanting to find something, someone, anything, and kick it. Knowing that kids have little patience, and no interest in anything non-toy related, I make my grocery list ahead of time. It’s organized by isle, cutting the chances of a dual-child meltdown, and I make sure we go first thing in the morning, ensuring no waiting in lines, and a quick check out.

Three quarters of the way through our order, Jordan started crying. It wasn’t anything to be alarmed about. So, I did the usual. I tried talking to him, singing the ABC’s, and finally, making ridiculous faces which accomplished nothing but diminish my self worth.

As we made our way through the frozen foods, I quickly realized that Jordan was becomming more frantic. I continued through the isle in a brisk jog, while Dylan hung on to the front of the cart. When I stopped briefly to grab some frozen raviolis, Dylan informs me of how much he really had to poop. Jordan was now in full screaming mode. The veins on the side of his neck were bulging. All hopes of calming him were clearly lost.

When we rounded the corner, heading into the bread and dairy isle, I watched as the bread delivery man, who was stocking the shelves and had obviously heard us coming, leapt out of our way. Smart man. Smart, smart, smart. He knew.

Unfortunately, the woman at the end of the dairy isle didn’t. I could feel it coming. I had seen her from across the shredded cheese. She was already waving at the kids. I tried my best to avoid a meeting, but she cornered me by the yogurts. As I scooped up a 16 pack of snack size yogurts, this woman began her attempt in calming the beast. She started out with the classic “peek-a-boo” move. Realizing that it would take much more than that, she pulled out what she thought was her trump card. In, what I assume is her best, varying-pitch baby voice, she says to Jordan: “Whasssaaamaaatterrrrr? Do you want to get out of that mean, old cart? Yes you do! Is Mommy pinching you?”

God love her. She was trying. The problem was, though, that she was merely prolonging the time I had to spend in this refrigerated hell, listening to my sweet child wail at the top of his lungs. I’m sure she is a very lovely woman. I’m sure she’s the kind of woman who buys a box of Thin Mints every year from the little girl next door, and happily makes “her special dish” for her scrapbooking club’s party each April. Lovely woman, really.

As I tried to politely walk away from her with Dylan (still having to poop), and Jordan (still….well you know), I was thanking her for her very valiant tries. But behind my pasted on smile and telling my children to wave, the only thing I could think of, was: How hard would I have to throw this buy-one-get-one-free, 12 oz. block of Oscar Meyer bologna at her to make her stop?

Pretty hard, I bet. Underneath it all, this lady looked fairly tough. Lovely, but tough.

In a full sprint, we made it to the registers before Jordan’s head started to spin 360 degrees. While I was busy hurling our food onto the belt, Dylan thought he would help. Faster than I could discourage him from helping, he had already picked up a jar. Before I knew it, there was sticky, purple, grape jelly splattered all over the floor, the cart, and my leg.

It was at this very moment that Jordan stopped crying.

Poor Dylan felt horrible about the jelly and instantly bent down to start cleaning up the mess. I quickly reached down, and snatched his hand up before he touched the broken glass. In that split second, it was perfectly quiet in the store. Everyone had heard the smash of glass, and turned to see what it was. It was quiet enough that when Dylan bent down to pick up the pieces, all we all heard was a huge “Pppppfffffftttttt!”

Dylan stands up quickly, eyes as wide as saucers, grabs his ass, and says, “Oh, Mama! I’m telling you, the poop wants to come out right now!”

Eventually, we got out of there, we got home, and yes, Dylan got to the bathroom in time. Phew.

I’ve decided that I will be going to the store at night, once Mark comes home from work.

All.

By.

Myself.

So, take this as advice (already known by the bread guy) and best said by Chicago:

“But if you see me walking by,
And the tears are in my eyes,
Look away, baby, look away.”

Check, please.

It never fails. Dylan only gets sick at night. There are never any tell-tale symptoms prior to bedtime that he is feeling ill in the least. The only warning I ever get is the quickening of footsteps just before he throws up on my bedroom floor. Every single time. Last night was no exception. I guess I should be happy that he stops at my doorway.

Jordan, on the other hand, gets sick only during the daytime. He'll wake up in his normal screaming-like-a-wild-banshee-set-on-fire way, and just when I've sat down to watch the news with my cup of coffee, he will stop what he's doing, run over to my side, and promptly puke in my lap.

This is exactly what happened today.

At least they chose a good day to be sick. I didn't have too much going on that couldn't be rescheduled, and the weather was crap, so we didn't miss any good outside play.

Random Target Mutterings

Yesterday I needed some time to myself. So, naturally I went to Target. I took note of a few things while there.

*Do people really not know when they are blocking an entire isle with their carts? Then they never hear you while you politely ask them to move. "Can I...?" "Ummm, 'scuse me, I just need to..." "Sorry to bother, but could you please move...just....umm, nevermind."

*I normally shop during the week, in the morning. The weekend Target shoppers are messy and inconsiderate. They move things around, drop them from racks, and don't fix them.

*Because I don't neglect Target during the week, I have a strange, unreasonable feeling of first dibs, or more of a right to be there than the weekend shoppers.

*The pronouncing of the name "Target" in a fake French accent (tar-zhay) is vastly overused. Yes, I too used witty pronunciation. It's time, everyone- let's put it to rest.

*Do people keep the children's pre-filled Easter baskets (purchased a week after Easter at 75% off) until next year, or do they celebrate Easter a week late?

*If a guy says that he does not like the floral swim trunks you've spotted, the fact that you say (in a whiney voice), "But, Michael! They're cute!" will not help your argument, especially if said in front of four to five strangers.

Good Morning!

At Dylan's school, there is a bully. He is your typical school house bully. He's a tad older than all the others, he's much taller, and he looks for kids to pick on. Dylan doesn't like him, meaning- I don't like him, hence- I don't like his mother. I imagine other parents understand this rational thinking.

Anyway, Dylan came home the other day to tell me that this kid kept pulling his own pants down to run around the room with his penis before the teachers could catch him. (Side note: he was suspended for a month after the second incident)

This led Mark and I to a good touch/bad touch talk with Dylan. Nothing too serious, but just to let him know what is not appropriate, and who he should tell. Basically, he learned to say, "Hey, don't touch my penis."

Dylan was good with the conversation. Mark thought he was too young, but I believe we kept it age appropriate. We returned to playing tag and wrestling after this (literally) two minute talk.

The next day at school, Dylan walked through the door, took his coat off, and hung it up in his cubby. As always, he put his name tag on the board and made his way to Miss Sherry and Miss Lori for his morning salutations. On his way, he waves at his friends, and acts like the town mayor. He walked past his best friend, Tyler, saying, "Hey hey, Tyler! Like my new Buzz Lightyear shoes? They have lights when I walk!" As he made his way past the bully, he smiled, waved and said in a very chipper morning attitude, "Hey, buddy! Don't touch my penis." He continued walking to his teachers. The two of them and I could not stop laughing. We agreed that if he could keep saying that until he is married, we'll have no problems.

Smile!

"Happiness is a choice that requires effort at times." -Anon

Om Mani Padme Hum

I stood in line at my local Borders store on Sunday, along with 50 other literature loving people. While quietly looking at the back of my new book, a man who was being checked out started to speak. Loudly.

"Excuse me, sir (to the manager) I don't understand why you sell gift cards with a Hanukkah symbol on it, but there are NO cards with Christmas symbols."

My first reaction was to tuck my head down and roll my eyes. I mean, COME ON! Everyone has a problem today.

That lady over there couldn't find any Precious Moments calendars. This woman is complaining that the Humane Society isn't here to wrap the books yet, as advertised. That guy is trying to find a store in another state that his cousin can go to, if he purchases the gift card. The older couple behind me can't understand why Kathy Lee Gifford isn't putting out a Christmas album this year.

Then, as I made my way to the counter, I started to change my mind. He was absolutely right. There were no Christmas cards. The closest they came to one was a card with a penguin wearing a Santa hat standing next to a quasi-Christmas tree.

I felt bad for the manager who had no answer to the man. I also felt proud of that man for standing up for something he thought needed to be said. Maybe he wasn't even Christian.

I should've said something about the lack of Kwanzaa cards.

Check, please.

This morning Dylan wanted a nice, cold glass of milk when he woke up. Milk and water are all he drinks at home. Juice, soda, and alcohol are for special occassions.

So I poured some milk into a plastic cup. Yes, a PLASTIC CUP. They were leftover from the party, and I didn't feel like doing any more dishes than I had to this morning. I placed the cup on the counter where Dylan could reach it, but Jordan couldn't.

As I turned around to tell Dylan to be careful not to spill it, I heard the distinct sound of fluid hitting my clean kitchen floor.

The milk? Nope. Jordan took off his diaper and thought it would be great fun to pee all over his foot, my floor, MY foot, the chair leg, and anything else that was around him.

As I launched my arm as fast as I could to grab the paper towels, I spilled Dylan's milk from the counter, and watched as it poured all over Jordan and his mess.