Monday, June 28, 2010

Nobody Puts Baby in the Tar Pit

It must be Summer here at mysuestories manor. I know this because this past weekend brought our annual summer ritual....the repaving of the driveway. Yes, the mountain man, a man who could not care less if his shoes matched, has an affectation that requires our driveway to be relaid with burning hot tar annually. Apparently? That old adage of “once you go black top, you never go down the dirt drive again” ? It’s true.

Once a year, we subject ourselves to the inconvenience of not being able to cross our drive way. We park our cars in the back yard (Thank God for large properties and 2ND entrances!) We lose access to all the contents of our garage...stuff we don’t seem to need all year round until we can’t get to it....Why, did you know the mountain man was going to cut the grass, whack the weeds, power wash the house, AND trim the trees for the first time EVER this weekend? Yea. Unfortunately? All the
necessary equipment to accomplish the mountain man’s little list? In the garage.

This also meant that we could not get to the entrance of our dog run on the opposite side of the garage. Ever the girl scout, I made sure the gate to the run which is off the driveway was closed the night before. This way, we could just kind of pitch the dogs over the back of the fence (What? They're daschunds, for the love of Christ. They are practically shaped like footballs!)

Early Saturday morning, our paver showed up (Four a.m. early- the man must be part vampire!) He paved and laid and tared tarred painted our driveway black.
Three hours later, he was gone, and the mountain man went to toss carefully place the first of three dogs over the back fence.

I was on the side of the house when I heard the mountain man yell, "Sh!t!!(This is a family blog, no?) Sh!t! The gate is open!"

I took off at a pretty good run (if I do say so myself), knowing that two hundred little doggie prints tracking through the driveway would not be a great sight to greet the mountain man every morning for the next year. I came around the garage to the driveway, when I heard the love of my life yelling, "WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY! WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY!"

I was already in motion as I came up to the wet tar. (Note to self....flipflops are tread less). I slid with my right foot on the tar. The still very HOT tar. Thinking I was part jacka$$ bird, I leaped in the air, and for the briefest of moments I could fly!!!!!
This epiphany was followed by a much more realistic feeling of "Oh, f*ck. I can't fly".
I landed hard on my a$$, (And my leg. And my arm. And my shoulder. But mostly my a$$.) and skidded to a stop right in front of the open dog run gate. (Where, by the way, that stupid mutt who can usually run for miles before stopping? Was sitting and staring at me like I was a bowl of fruit loops minus the milk).

I peeled myself off the hot and oh so sticky tar, and I closed the gate triumphantly, ecstatic that I could move at all.

It was at this point that my beloved (and the sloth- did I mention that the sloth was not only awake at that ungodly hour, but also helping to straighten up the yard? Yeah, well, suffice it to say his efforts were well rewarded-I've never heard him laugh so long and loud!)-they came over to where I was limping away from the driveway to tell me that the mountain man had, in fact, yelled, "DON'T WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY! DON'T WALK ON THE DRIVEWAY!"

It only took thirty minutes to scrape the tar off of my skin. And clothes. And flipflops. And besides the six layers of skin I lost on my leg/thigh/foot/ass, the only severe injury was to my pride (yes, constant reader, I do still have some of that left. Or at least I did).

And now? There is a perfect implant of my ass embedded in our driveway. For a whole year. It's kind of like our own little Hollywood Walk of Fame. Kids from all over the county will come and put there butts in to the imprint of my ass to see how they measure up....

Hmmph. Well, at least now I know why it's called ASS FALLT. Sigh.

Oh, and not to worry. I was able to get the lawn mower, the weed wacker, the tree trimmer, AND the power washer out of the garage so that mountain man could make good on those promises. We'll see who laughs last.

Monday, June 21, 2010

It's Father's Day...not Knock Somebody up Day!

Anyone can father a child. Well, technically, I suppose, you have to be male...although with technology today,that may no longer prove true. It's
easy to roll in the hay and be a donor of the jizz of life (intentionally OR otherwise). And nothing can melt the heart of a man quicker than the first cry of a newborn. There's a life long relationship (whether voluntary or not) that has begun. That? Constitutes "fatherhood". Technically.

But what about the man who accepts to raise as well as his own the children "fathered" by another? The guy who came in after those precious first steps ? The step dad. He may not have been there for those baby steps, but you can bet he caught the foot-stomping-up-the stairs years. He missed out on those first words, but heard the rantings of an angry teen. He did not read the early fairy tales, but he was there to help shape the future dreams. The step dad.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. And some times? A village is what you need. For mysuestories manor? It takes a step dad to help raise a responsible, considerate kid (and sometimes a not so responsible, considerate kid). And for that? We are grateful to our mountain man.

(Unless of course those kids turn out to be axe murderers. Then? It's their dad's fault!)

Monday, June 14, 2010

Yo, Ho, Yogurt?

A desire to eat healthy and once again be a size 8 (dare I say 6) attacks me about once a month ---okay, maybe daily, but I usually cannot hear that little voice inside my head over the crunch of ridged potato chips.

But at least once a month I embark on the "I will eat healthier and be skinny again" band wagon.

My first act? To buy yogurt while food shopping. The super market, with all it's sugary goodness, is the place where such attacks usually occur for me. I will look down at my little cart filled with Hot Pockets and Spaghetti O's and declare war in the dairy aisle. I will spend oodles of time studying the healthy fruit filled yogurt selections. I will inevitably buy several different brands and flavors....Vanilla, Chocolate Chip, Key Lime Pie.....I will get them home where they will continue to culture their little bacteria infested containers in my fridge. I will eventually feel bad about wasting good money on sh!t I know I won't eat, and I will open one, take one spoonful, gag....and then throw them all out.

This week's shopping trip was no exception. The mountain man caught me eyeing the yogurts in their compact little containers...Pre-made breakfast AND regularity! Whoo hoo...I mean really? What's not to love....Besides the taste, I mean.

So the mountain man chooses a new variety for this week's ongoing yogurt tossing., er, tasting ...He picks up a CHOBANI....It's Greek yogurt...he insists the ladies where he work absolutely love it....I can only hope they stopped before discussing their regularity (or lack thereof)...

I like Greek yogurt dressing. Hummus and Tahini have made nice dips for me in the past.. How bad could it be?

Fast forward Monday morning at work. I will eat healthy, live healthy, be healthy....Breakfast time..I break out my little CHOBANI, ignoring the pleas of my Ham and Cheese Hot Pockets in the Freezer (Hey, they ARE LEAN Pockets...don't judge...).

I peel back the container and dig in to 130 calories's not quite Greek yogurt dressing.....closer to sour cream, but not. More like a sourer sour cream...(is that a double negative?) I persevere. 2 spoonfuls.....4 spoonfuls... I am drinking large glasses of water with every spoonful.....I get three quarters through.....I. Just. Can't. Do. It.

I throw it out. Sigh.

Next week? I will try again...I am nothing if not determined.....only this time? I will add onion dip mix and some chips into the mix......Health be damned...This? Is personal......

Needless to say? This is not a paid advertisement. I have not been compensated in any way, shape, or form for this post. I mean, really, would you pay me to say this about your product? I didn't think so.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Smooth Sailing? Not MY Couch Potatoes!

So today's headlines are just filled with reports of Abby Sunderland's dramatic rescue from the Indian Ocean after her failed attempt to be the youngest person, at 16, to sail around the world. Solo. All by herself. Did I mention she is just 16?

Much of the debate circulating lays blame at the door of her parents for allowing their child to embark on such an adventure to begin with. Well, you won't find me passing such judgement. Hell no. I'm still trying to figure out how to get my kids to actually hit the hamper with their dirty socks, instead of just landing a circle of missed rim shots around the basket. Which must cause blindness, by the way, because once those filthy little socks leave their hands? They become invisible to the creatures I call my offspring.

A solo trip around the world? I suppose the sloth would first have to conquer arranging his own transportation to a job less than three blocks from our humble little abode. And exactly how did Abby eat without her mother within shouting range to "get me a snack, puh-lease,,,,Mom"? And unless there are enough hot pockets aboard to sink the Titanic, I know of three little mysustories manor inhabitants who are never going to make it through the first meal.

Now, our gamester might be first to sign up for an adventure that starts with three weeks of school left! Wait till he finds out that God does not provide WIFI in the middle of the ocean. Nope. He'll be wandering off only as far as his XBOX signal allows.

And while I'm willing to bet Abby's parents didn't stock her up with anything stronger than Coke Zero, I know of one particular inhabitant of our lovely little abode that isn't setting sail any where without Captain Morgan at the helm.

So, I say kudos to Abby Sunderland for at least dreaming that the world (and all of it's vast oceans) are her playground. Hey, at least she's not curled up in the fetal position staring at a computer screen (present company excluded) and is actually out there Just Doing It, like Nike says. (Apparently? Nike was not just talking to Tiger with that one).

And Mr and Mrs Sunderland? Please tell me she at least came home with a filthy boat with dirty socks strewn from one end to the other. Thank you.