It's another Monday. The alarm goes off at an ungodly hour. We roll out of bed still weary. I shower while he makes our breakfasts and lunches. A quick kiss, and another long week begins. A commute ends, Mounds (or is it pounds?) of paper work shuffled, tabulated, recorded, analyzed. Another commute. Dinner on the table when I arrive home.
Am I complaining here? Well, I thought I was. I figured I'd rant and rave about how Monday's really bite the big one (Rest assured, constant reader, they do!). And yet as I recap the day, I realize rather selfishly that maybe it ain't all that bad. Oh yes, it does suck to have to drag my lazy butt out of bed and it IS awfully cold out there. But hell, at least I AM working, and there is food for breakfasts and lunches, and with minor sniffles and coughs and colds, we are all healthy. Heck, no one in our house has ever even be arrested, ever. Now isn't THAT something you can hang your hat on?
Oh, and did I mention that I have the most wonderful of husbands who makes all those hot and delicious meals for our family? Or that for all their teenage or nearly or nary teenage grumblings, we do possess three of the greatest kids you could ever wish for (if, that is, you were crazy enough to wish for teens either pre- mid- or post stage at all!)
And our house is warm and heartfelt with the ever present scent of fresh cut wood in the stove. (Again, thank you Mountain Man.) And the freezer always full. Yep. And our health! We are all healthy and happy or sometimes healthy and grumpy! But we are all well.
_________________________________________________________________
Okay! Uncle! Uncle! I wrote the first half of this post this early this morning. I was already at my desk, and I dashed off what early morning thoughts were bouncing in my early morning head. Usually, not much to read about, just a few ramblings to get my creativity mojo flowing for THE actual post. These are early morning thoughts, after all. I had my breakfast (cold pizza, my favorite! -Thanks baby!) and called the house to make sure those darling kids I mentioned earlier were all up and running for their school day.
That's when it happened. A sick child answered that phone, hacking and coughing away. Our youngest, who last night when I pried the X BOX 360 Live controller from his kung fu grip at 8:30 last night, was a perfectly healthy child. He was fine while he was sleeping all night, and seemed to be sleeping comfortably when I checked in on him before leaving for work at the ungodly hour of 5 am. In fact, this brutal junky cough due to cold that has him seized in its grip appears to have attacked at the precise moment I wrote the words "we are all healthy".
Drats! Why couldn't I have been writing about us winning the lottery? Hey, wouldn't THAT be cool? I could type up fancy cars to appear in the driveway. Ohhh, and I would delete more than a few pounds of body fat (and probably a few people as well!) I would type up the perfect teen personalities for the kids. And our alpha male would no longer feel the need to mark our entire house as his domain! Oh, and the $$money$$!!!! All that money that would actually grow on the proverbial money tree out back. Except it wouldn't be just a tree. Nope. We'd be living in an enchanted forest even Robin Hood would envy with all it's money tree forestry........
___________________________________________________________________
I just checked out the backyard. Nothing there but some leafless (and money less) oaks and pines that have been there since the beginning of time (at least since the beginning of MY time, anyway. sigh. It figures. My magic keyboard only focused on the sniffles and coughs and colds line of this post. And, oh shit....What did I write on that very same line???!!!
Heck, no one in our house has ever even be arrested, ever.
What do I call this? Bad Karma? Tempting the Gods of NOT FUNNY UP THERE?
Shit. I think I'll just call it a day. Maybe I'll just swing by the bank and pick up some extra cash. You know. Just in case someone needs bail.....
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
They Call Me The Brain...Or Was That The Pain?
I am so slick. This is a little re-cap of mysuestories brain storm last night. I get them a lot, you know. No, smart ass, not nights. Brain storms. And this is pretty much how they all end up.
Mysuestories: Hey, babe? I've got an idea.
Mountain Man: (makes noise, something a kin to a moan/groan)
Mysuestories: No, really. I really have an idea. And this time it's a good one.
Mountain Man: (another, louder grunt)
Mysuestories: Remember when you went hunting with the guys and said it would be a good idea if some day I took a little trip with the girls some time?
Mountain Man: No. That didn't happen.
Mysuestories: Sure it did. You suggested I could maybe plan a girl getaway.
Mountain Man: No. That was when I was telling you how fifteen years ago I went fishing in Alaska with a bunch of buddies, and all our then-wives were going to plan a trip for themselves, but they never pulled it together, so it never happened.
Mysuestories: Are you sure that's how it happened? Because I thought I remember you telling me to go away with some girls some where.
Mountain Man: (with wary eye upon me) Where exactly are you thinking of going?
Mysuestories: Well, you know how much I enjoy my blogging....
Mountain Man: And...
Mysuestories: Well, there's this convention every year. And it's really educational. And I could learn a lot, like how to finally post those pictures in the middle of my stories and how to get more advertising on board. You know, so I could help our family earn more money. It would of course only be for the good of the family.
Mountain Man: And where would such a for-the-good-of-the-family gathering occur?
Mysuestories: Hmmm...I don't really know. But I'll bet it's probably out in the middle of a mid west state. Nowhere mainstream. I'm sure. Nothing like Vegas or L.A. or Chicago, or anything.
Mountain Man: And the kids would want to go?
Mysuestories: Um, no. They would stay here with you. That's why it's a girl-cation. But an educational one. To learn stuff.
Mountain Man: And you'd go alone?
Mysuestories: Well, um, maybe I could go with one of my blog friends, like http://www.colormepink.com/ or something. You, know, the one I occasionally chat with on long weekend nights.....Or I could ask my kister. You know how she'd love to spend some time with me and a bottle of wine.
Mountain Man: OK, we'll look into it. Find out where it is first. Oh, and mysuestories? Don't be booking any flights just yet.
Of course I didn't hear that last part. He may have not even said it. I don't know for sure. I was in the other room on line with the travel agent. Oh, and guess where the convention is? Chicago. Isn't that great? See you in the windy city!!!!
Of course, I should probably find out when it is......oh well, first things first. I gotta go pack.
Mysuestories: Hey, babe? I've got an idea.
Mountain Man: (makes noise, something a kin to a moan/groan)
Mysuestories: No, really. I really have an idea. And this time it's a good one.
Mountain Man: (another, louder grunt)
Mysuestories: Remember when you went hunting with the guys and said it would be a good idea if some day I took a little trip with the girls some time?
Mountain Man: No. That didn't happen.
Mysuestories: Sure it did. You suggested I could maybe plan a girl getaway.
Mountain Man: No. That was when I was telling you how fifteen years ago I went fishing in Alaska with a bunch of buddies, and all our then-wives were going to plan a trip for themselves, but they never pulled it together, so it never happened.
Mysuestories: Are you sure that's how it happened? Because I thought I remember you telling me to go away with some girls some where.
Mountain Man: (with wary eye upon me) Where exactly are you thinking of going?
Mysuestories: Well, you know how much I enjoy my blogging....
Mountain Man: And...
Mysuestories: Well, there's this convention every year. And it's really educational. And I could learn a lot, like how to finally post those pictures in the middle of my stories and how to get more advertising on board. You know, so I could help our family earn more money. It would of course only be for the good of the family.
Mountain Man: And where would such a for-the-good-of-the-family gathering occur?
Mysuestories: Hmmm...I don't really know. But I'll bet it's probably out in the middle of a mid west state. Nowhere mainstream. I'm sure. Nothing like Vegas or L.A. or Chicago, or anything.
Mountain Man: And the kids would want to go?
Mysuestories: Um, no. They would stay here with you. That's why it's a girl-cation. But an educational one. To learn stuff.
Mountain Man: And you'd go alone?
Mysuestories: Well, um, maybe I could go with one of my blog friends, like http://www.colormepink.com/ or something. You, know, the one I occasionally chat with on long weekend nights.....Or I could ask my kister. You know how she'd love to spend some time with me and a bottle of wine.
Mountain Man: OK, we'll look into it. Find out where it is first. Oh, and mysuestories? Don't be booking any flights just yet.
Of course I didn't hear that last part. He may have not even said it. I don't know for sure. I was in the other room on line with the travel agent. Oh, and guess where the convention is? Chicago. Isn't that great? See you in the windy city!!!!
Of course, I should probably find out when it is......oh well, first things first. I gotta go pack.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Let Them eat Cake- Shared!
It's funny how some things happen to certain people, and it simply amazes me that history can repeat itself in completely different circumstances.
As I may have lamented lightly about before (Heh!) -ie: Merry Birthday, Baby!- I have the very distinct and individual pleasure (?) of having my birthday fall upon Christmas Day. Just a little something to make me, mysuestories, a little bit different than the average person. A little SPECIAL, if you will. Boy I can't count the times I've been that. Yep, it was quite the honor, being the sole Christmas baby in my classroom, in my home, as a youngster. Then the world began to expand for little mysueshortstories (as I was known at the time- or would have been, had there been a blog ville then).
Yes, the world turned and I became aware of extended family. At some point in my young years, I learned that I had both an uncle and my cousin, (his son) also were born on the Most Wonderful Day of The Year. So much for basking in the adoration of my family as a birthday cake was proudly brought out during Christmas dessert bearing my name. Oh, the cake was still there, only my name was written a lot smaller, as it now included the names of both my uncle and my cousin (hi, Eddie!). And so, the golden years of youth and limelight diminished for my Christmas/Birthday.
As the world turned, and people grew apart, there came a time when my cousin and uncle were no longer a big part of our holiday celebrations, and, much to my delight, my name was again center stage on the ever present Christmas/Birthday cake.
Fast forward ten years, and I meet and marry the man who will 15 short years later hold the dubious title of having been "my then-husband". (Trust me, it takes A LOT of work to get to even that much affection here). Christmas time rolls around, and as Christmas Eve approaches, I am quick to learn that my then-husband's brother had the audacity to be born on MY BIRTHDAY. Granted, he was born a good ten years before me, but it was still MY DAY, dammit. Once again, the lettering got smaller as my anger increased. The only small consolation was that said brother-in -law's wife shared the same birth date as MY then-husband. Take that! Order one more cake with small lettering!
One Christmas Eve evening, my then-husband and I stopped at a local pubbery for a hot toddy or two. If you have the pleasure of knowing both my then-husband and myself at this period in time you are probably saying, "A pubbery? How shocking!". Yes , it's true, we WERE known to imbibe on rare occasions. In any event, we find ourselves celebrating the impending holiday with a few of our nearest and dearest unknown bar tender and patrons. It so happens that on that particular Christmas Eve, a birthday party was being thrown for one of the patron's by his wife. Upon further investigation (which I'm sure included plying the guest of honor with alcoholic beverages), I learned that this patron's birthday was actually On (yep, you guessed it!) Christmas Day!
Well, we continued to revel and celebrate his AND my approaching birthdays with many a good "Happy birthday to you, my good lady!", to which I would reply with a clink of our respective cocktail glasses, "And Happy birthday to you, kind sir." (Although truth be told, it probably sounded a lot more like "An apeee Birfday you, kinda", by this point.
When Mrs. Birthday Boy started taking pictures, I made it a point to manage to stick my face/ head/ other assorted body parts into each and every single picture taken. After all, it was my party too, dammit. Wasn't it? OK, maybe it wasn't, but it WAS my birthday, also! The night ended, and I don't think we ever revisited that pubbery or saw my birthday buddy again.
Spin the globe another decade, and I am now estranged from my cake-sharing brother-in-law. I know, I didn't divorce him, but you'd be surprised how divorce no matter what the reason cuts those family ties like a knife in the back. On the lighter side of things, My name was center stage once again on that cake!
One relationship fails and another blooms, and with it a new love springs eternal. Or something like that. All i know is that our first holiday season together, I actually asked my mountain man hubby if he had any relatives born on Christmas. Nope. Not a one in sight. "Break out the cake," says I.
Our first Christmas together, and two weeks before my birthday, hubby has his annual work Christmas party- a lovely catered affair, something akin to being "and Guest" at a wedding, where there are way too many drunk cousin Ned's. Mountain Man proudly introduces me to his colleagues and cohorts (more of the second, I'd say). And half way through the rounds, I am face to face with my birthday drinking buddy from the pubbery of Christmas past. "mysuestories," says the mountain man, "I'd like to introduce you to my best friend, Mikey. His birthday is on Christmas, too!"
As I sighed heavily in defeat, Mikey's wife exclaimed in a not so quiet, let everyone over hear voice ,"OH MY GOD! You're the girl from all of Mikey's birthday pictures! We couldn't figure out who you were!"
Well, of course you couldn't. I share a birth date AND a cake with half of the population of my county alone.
Well, Mikey's wife is having a big birthday this year. And she's throwing herself a surprise party. Turns out Mikey of shared birthday status isn't much for putting one over on her and has admitted defeat before botching the entire thing. So, we'll be reveling in her birthday at the same pubbery of Christmas/Birthday's past. And the real kicker? Her birthday is on the same day as the Mountain Man's! Heh. Enjoy that cake with the small Birthday name lettering. I'll be over there. I think someone is taking out a camera!
As I may have lamented lightly about before (Heh!) -ie: Merry Birthday, Baby!- I have the very distinct and individual pleasure (?) of having my birthday fall upon Christmas Day. Just a little something to make me, mysuestories, a little bit different than the average person. A little SPECIAL, if you will. Boy I can't count the times I've been that. Yep, it was quite the honor, being the sole Christmas baby in my classroom, in my home, as a youngster. Then the world began to expand for little mysueshortstories (as I was known at the time- or would have been, had there been a blog ville then).
Yes, the world turned and I became aware of extended family. At some point in my young years, I learned that I had both an uncle and my cousin, (his son) also were born on the Most Wonderful Day of The Year. So much for basking in the adoration of my family as a birthday cake was proudly brought out during Christmas dessert bearing my name. Oh, the cake was still there, only my name was written a lot smaller, as it now included the names of both my uncle and my cousin (hi, Eddie!). And so, the golden years of youth and limelight diminished for my Christmas/Birthday.
As the world turned, and people grew apart, there came a time when my cousin and uncle were no longer a big part of our holiday celebrations, and, much to my delight, my name was again center stage on the ever present Christmas/Birthday cake.
Fast forward ten years, and I meet and marry the man who will 15 short years later hold the dubious title of having been "my then-husband". (Trust me, it takes A LOT of work to get to even that much affection here). Christmas time rolls around, and as Christmas Eve approaches, I am quick to learn that my then-husband's brother had the audacity to be born on MY BIRTHDAY. Granted, he was born a good ten years before me, but it was still MY DAY, dammit. Once again, the lettering got smaller as my anger increased. The only small consolation was that said brother-in -law's wife shared the same birth date as MY then-husband. Take that! Order one more cake with small lettering!
One Christmas Eve evening, my then-husband and I stopped at a local pubbery for a hot toddy or two. If you have the pleasure of knowing both my then-husband and myself at this period in time you are probably saying, "A pubbery? How shocking!". Yes , it's true, we WERE known to imbibe on rare occasions. In any event, we find ourselves celebrating the impending holiday with a few of our nearest and dearest unknown bar tender and patrons. It so happens that on that particular Christmas Eve, a birthday party was being thrown for one of the patron's by his wife. Upon further investigation (which I'm sure included plying the guest of honor with alcoholic beverages), I learned that this patron's birthday was actually On (yep, you guessed it!) Christmas Day!
Well, we continued to revel and celebrate his AND my approaching birthdays with many a good "Happy birthday to you, my good lady!", to which I would reply with a clink of our respective cocktail glasses, "And Happy birthday to you, kind sir." (Although truth be told, it probably sounded a lot more like "An apeee Birfday you, kinda", by this point.
When Mrs. Birthday Boy started taking pictures, I made it a point to manage to stick my face/ head/ other assorted body parts into each and every single picture taken. After all, it was my party too, dammit. Wasn't it? OK, maybe it wasn't, but it WAS my birthday, also! The night ended, and I don't think we ever revisited that pubbery or saw my birthday buddy again.
Spin the globe another decade, and I am now estranged from my cake-sharing brother-in-law. I know, I didn't divorce him, but you'd be surprised how divorce no matter what the reason cuts those family ties like a knife in the back. On the lighter side of things, My name was center stage once again on that cake!
One relationship fails and another blooms, and with it a new love springs eternal. Or something like that. All i know is that our first holiday season together, I actually asked my mountain man hubby if he had any relatives born on Christmas. Nope. Not a one in sight. "Break out the cake," says I.
Our first Christmas together, and two weeks before my birthday, hubby has his annual work Christmas party- a lovely catered affair, something akin to being "and Guest" at a wedding, where there are way too many drunk cousin Ned's. Mountain Man proudly introduces me to his colleagues and cohorts (more of the second, I'd say). And half way through the rounds, I am face to face with my birthday drinking buddy from the pubbery of Christmas past. "mysuestories," says the mountain man, "I'd like to introduce you to my best friend, Mikey. His birthday is on Christmas, too!"
As I sighed heavily in defeat, Mikey's wife exclaimed in a not so quiet, let everyone over hear voice ,"OH MY GOD! You're the girl from all of Mikey's birthday pictures! We couldn't figure out who you were!"
Well, of course you couldn't. I share a birth date AND a cake with half of the population of my county alone.
Well, Mikey's wife is having a big birthday this year. And she's throwing herself a surprise party. Turns out Mikey of shared birthday status isn't much for putting one over on her and has admitted defeat before botching the entire thing. So, we'll be reveling in her birthday at the same pubbery of Christmas/Birthday's past. And the real kicker? Her birthday is on the same day as the Mountain Man's! Heh. Enjoy that cake with the small Birthday name lettering. I'll be over there. I think someone is taking out a camera!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Taking Back the Nut House- Story of a Siege
It is open season on squirrels in MY neck of the woods tonight! No, we don't live that far out in the sticks that we actually hunt the little critters, but if given a chance, there's at least one of the little buggers that I'd let have it with both barrels!
It seems we have a squirrel who has taken up residence for the winter in our thankfully not- attached to-the-house garage. Why live up in a tree with leaves for a nest on those cold winter nights when the folks at this house are subletting their warm, cozy, fully insulated (except where the bastard ate it!) garage for this winter season?
I've seen the new occupant now living amongst my snow shovels, hammers, and John Deere lawnmower. He is HUGE! No kidding, he (? I haven't gotten that close that I can tell it's gender, and even if i had, I still wouldn't know how to tell) he is the size of a small dog. Wait, I take that back. I have three small dogs, and he is bigger than two of them! With the full winter coat this carnivore is sporting, he is definitely intimidating.
I would think he would have to be, seeing as his path to our fully furnished garage/rental bisects the middle of our dog pen. Yep, that's right. In order to trample what little sanctuary one can possess of a garage, this king of all squirrels must cut right through our dog pen to invade our detached portion of our home (hey, in some cultures, there could be a family of twenty immigrants living in there!)
Did I mention we have three dogs who spend a great deal of time every day in the pen attached to aforementioned squirrel homeland? And yet, as much as they love chasing squirrels and dutifully barking there ever-loving heads off at those squirrels safely bounding from tree limb to tree limb, even THEY recognize the severity of this monster's sheer size.
After yet another night of having had my garbage pillaged (Can one actually pillage, if it IS only garbage? Or does the fact that the squirrel finds my garbage worthy of ransacking automatically make it pillagable?) Again, I digress, sorry. Anyway, after having to pick up the remnants of my garbage that are apparently even unworthy of a hungry squirrel in the dead of winter - I mean, we are talking the garbage of all garbage here- after once again, cleaning and re bagging the same garbage---I had had enough.
-
Doing what any good wife of any ferocious hunter of animals -large, small, roadkill, - I sent my mountain man hunter of a hubby to task. You know of whom I speak: the great wise hunter whose deer heads, boar heads and assorted antlers adorn said garage -how creepy is THAT you Hannibel Lecter of the squirrel world, living amongst your once lively (and alive) fellow foresters?
To the rescue, my dear heart immediately and expertly set up a have-a-hart trap in which to snare said forager of trash. Of course, the have-a -hart trap was a last resort after explaining to hubby that blasting away at a squirrel with a double barrel shot gun in suburbia in BROAD DAY LIGHT just might be a bit wee problematic. Anyway, the trap was laid, the neighborhood children spared of buckshot spray, and like the king of all beasts that we are, we awaited the capture of the elusive squirrel, which just like any fish that got away, grew tremendously with each passing conversation.
The following day, I returned to the homestead to learn that our own slayer of wild beast had indeed been successful in his quest. He had snared a squirrel. Not THE squirrel, whom I suspect was quietly chuckling from the rafters of his safe haven, our garage. Hubby had succeeded in trapping a smaller, less furrier relative of our nightmare tree climbing/but garage living rodent. Still, encouraged by his success, our mountain man went about the task of disposing of the pesky critter. (Don't ask, and I won't tell....Kind of like the Army and gays.)
As hubby prepared to take care of his capture, the little bugger scampered out of the cage and right past him and up the nearest tree. None the worse for wear , and now with a full belly courtesy of the garage owners, this squirrel and his burly friend who STILL eludes capture as I write, are advertising our humble dwelling as a bed and breakfast, with the comedy show of watching the mountain man try to scamper after the little f**kers while the lady of the house (yours truly) screams and squeals like a ten year old girl at a Hannah Montana concert.
And just in case, while we sleep soundly and securely in our bedroom, if a certain squirrel happens to be logging on MY laptop and reading this, know this you little bastard: We have not yet begun to fight, and those acorn shells littering my garage floor; well those just may not be the only nuts left rolling when this is over.
Oh, and faithful reader? If you should notice any changes to my MY SPACE page such as "MYSUESTORIES likes big nuts" or maybe "MYSUESTORIES has fallen out of a tree and landed on her head just one time too many"....please report to the authorities, that I may have met with an untimely "accident".
One more thing, oh constant reader, could you please ask them to look for the mountain man, too? Thanks. Forever in your debt --mysuestories
It seems we have a squirrel who has taken up residence for the winter in our thankfully not- attached to-the-house garage. Why live up in a tree with leaves for a nest on those cold winter nights when the folks at this house are subletting their warm, cozy, fully insulated (except where the bastard ate it!) garage for this winter season?
I've seen the new occupant now living amongst my snow shovels, hammers, and John Deere lawnmower. He is HUGE! No kidding, he (? I haven't gotten that close that I can tell it's gender, and even if i had, I still wouldn't know how to tell) he is the size of a small dog. Wait, I take that back. I have three small dogs, and he is bigger than two of them! With the full winter coat this carnivore is sporting, he is definitely intimidating.
I would think he would have to be, seeing as his path to our fully furnished garage/rental bisects the middle of our dog pen. Yep, that's right. In order to trample what little sanctuary one can possess of a garage, this king of all squirrels must cut right through our dog pen to invade our detached portion of our home (hey, in some cultures, there could be a family of twenty immigrants living in there!)
Did I mention we have three dogs who spend a great deal of time every day in the pen attached to aforementioned squirrel homeland? And yet, as much as they love chasing squirrels and dutifully barking there ever-loving heads off at those squirrels safely bounding from tree limb to tree limb, even THEY recognize the severity of this monster's sheer size.
After yet another night of having had my garbage pillaged (Can one actually pillage, if it IS only garbage? Or does the fact that the squirrel finds my garbage worthy of ransacking automatically make it pillagable?) Again, I digress, sorry. Anyway, after having to pick up the remnants of my garbage that are apparently even unworthy of a hungry squirrel in the dead of winter - I mean, we are talking the garbage of all garbage here- after once again, cleaning and re bagging the same garbage---I had had enough.
-
Doing what any good wife of any ferocious hunter of animals -large, small, roadkill, - I sent my mountain man hunter of a hubby to task. You know of whom I speak: the great wise hunter whose deer heads, boar heads and assorted antlers adorn said garage -how creepy is THAT you Hannibel Lecter of the squirrel world, living amongst your once lively (and alive) fellow foresters?
To the rescue, my dear heart immediately and expertly set up a have-a-hart trap in which to snare said forager of trash. Of course, the have-a -hart trap was a last resort after explaining to hubby that blasting away at a squirrel with a double barrel shot gun in suburbia in BROAD DAY LIGHT just might be a bit wee problematic. Anyway, the trap was laid, the neighborhood children spared of buckshot spray, and like the king of all beasts that we are, we awaited the capture of the elusive squirrel, which just like any fish that got away, grew tremendously with each passing conversation.
The following day, I returned to the homestead to learn that our own slayer of wild beast had indeed been successful in his quest. He had snared a squirrel. Not THE squirrel, whom I suspect was quietly chuckling from the rafters of his safe haven, our garage. Hubby had succeeded in trapping a smaller, less furrier relative of our nightmare tree climbing/but garage living rodent. Still, encouraged by his success, our mountain man went about the task of disposing of the pesky critter. (Don't ask, and I won't tell....Kind of like the Army and gays.)
As hubby prepared to take care of his capture, the little bugger scampered out of the cage and right past him and up the nearest tree. None the worse for wear , and now with a full belly courtesy of the garage owners, this squirrel and his burly friend who STILL eludes capture as I write, are advertising our humble dwelling as a bed and breakfast, with the comedy show of watching the mountain man try to scamper after the little f**kers while the lady of the house (yours truly) screams and squeals like a ten year old girl at a Hannah Montana concert.
And just in case, while we sleep soundly and securely in our bedroom, if a certain squirrel happens to be logging on MY laptop and reading this, know this you little bastard: We have not yet begun to fight, and those acorn shells littering my garage floor; well those just may not be the only nuts left rolling when this is over.
Oh, and faithful reader? If you should notice any changes to my MY SPACE page such as "MYSUESTORIES likes big nuts" or maybe "MYSUESTORIES has fallen out of a tree and landed on her head just one time too many"....please report to the authorities, that I may have met with an untimely "accident".
One more thing, oh constant reader, could you please ask them to look for the mountain man, too? Thanks. Forever in your debt --mysuestories
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Wake up, Little Susie, Wake up!
Today I sent my son to school tired. It seems the 9 hours of sleep that was enough for him, is no longer. We stayed up until 9:30 watching a Mummy movie that I had planned to have ended by 8:30, but due to technical difficulties,(the DVD player kept freezing, and it took us forty minutes to figure it was the machine and NOT the disc itself that was screwed up-sorry Blockbuster, all those offensive phrases were truly unwarranted!), we were off course. So, the poor kid was sent off to school a little tired.
I haven't not been tired in over 18 years. Since the words "you're pregnant" were uttered, I have not been fully rested. Not once. I have lagged, sagged, and drooped through these past 18 years with not so much as a single nap. I have stayed up all night with puking kids (my favorite puking moment -wait, did I really just write that?- My favorite was when my oldest son was about four. He came to my bedroom where I was enjoying the half sleep of a parent with toddlers and uttered that most instantaneous of wake up calls "Mom, my tummy don't feel so good."
With a leap worthy of Bruce Jenner going over a hurdle, I sprang from my slumber and ushered the bemoaning youth in front of me into the bathroom. Apparently retching one's insides out is a natural born instinct, because this never before yakked child knew enough to perch over the bowl while his breakfast, lunch, dinner and lets not forget the bedtime snack-2 cookies and milk-decided to make a grand reappearance in a somewhat more fluid manor.
I had just washed and changed him into fresh bed clothes and was settling down with him in my bed when he leaned toward me and asked "Mom, what was that brown stuff that came out of my throat?" How to explain the volcanic forces of a flu bug to a four year old? Well, first, you stifle a snicker, and then you dead pan. "Sweetie, that happens to all the little children who don't eat their vegetables". OK, OK, I was tired, AND I hadn't been able to get the kid to eat a vegetable in two and a half years. Some call it cruel. Me? I was multitasking, and making the best of a yucky situation!
Another sleepless night: There is nothing like being awaken (again middle of the night -apparently really bad, need to be dealt with immediately things only happen in the middle of the night when-yup you guessed it---I'm sleeping)- anyway, nothing like being awaken by that sleepy sounding child's voice. "Mom, I don't feel good...."
I opened one sleep-encrusted eye wide enough to see a sleepy seven year old covered with (peanut butter? syrup? dear god not feces?!!?) holy shit.... it's blood! The kid was covered in blood! All over his jammies, blood. His face , covered. His hair? More blood. Talk about hit the ground running!!! After we (read I-my then hubby grunted and rolled back to sleep---hmmm an indicator of things to come?)- ascertained that, no, he had not been stabbed by intruders, nor had he massacred his still sleeping siblings Ala Lizzie Borden (although I DID have to double check the oldest step sister-Geez, that kid could sleep through an earthquake--I am pure green with envy there!). It seems Son #1 has poor sinuses, and having turned the heat up before bed time, I inadvertently dried out the poor bugger's sinus cavity, thereby causing a nose bleed. He then proceeded, in his sleep, mind you, to wipe his nose on to every surface on or about his body. (That kid is a slob even when he's sleeping!!!)
And so it goes, another sleepless night for Mom. Well, the kids are older now, and the nosebleed kid is starting to drive. And his curfew is past my usual nine o'clock bedtime. Needless to say, I am more tired now than when they were babies. And there's a heck of a lot more to keep me up all night worrying, even when they are home in bed.
So, if you're a little tired from movie night, kiddo, just think of it as a little payback. And not to worry, 'cause I got us ANOTHER movie for tonight. And just maybe it's a wee bit longer than last night's feature film. Hey, I can't help myself. At least while he's watching the movie, maybe I can catch a nap!
I haven't not been tired in over 18 years. Since the words "you're pregnant" were uttered, I have not been fully rested. Not once. I have lagged, sagged, and drooped through these past 18 years with not so much as a single nap. I have stayed up all night with puking kids (my favorite puking moment -wait, did I really just write that?- My favorite was when my oldest son was about four. He came to my bedroom where I was enjoying the half sleep of a parent with toddlers and uttered that most instantaneous of wake up calls "Mom, my tummy don't feel so good."
With a leap worthy of Bruce Jenner going over a hurdle, I sprang from my slumber and ushered the bemoaning youth in front of me into the bathroom. Apparently retching one's insides out is a natural born instinct, because this never before yakked child knew enough to perch over the bowl while his breakfast, lunch, dinner and lets not forget the bedtime snack-2 cookies and milk-decided to make a grand reappearance in a somewhat more fluid manor.
I had just washed and changed him into fresh bed clothes and was settling down with him in my bed when he leaned toward me and asked "Mom, what was that brown stuff that came out of my throat?" How to explain the volcanic forces of a flu bug to a four year old? Well, first, you stifle a snicker, and then you dead pan. "Sweetie, that happens to all the little children who don't eat their vegetables". OK, OK, I was tired, AND I hadn't been able to get the kid to eat a vegetable in two and a half years. Some call it cruel. Me? I was multitasking, and making the best of a yucky situation!
Another sleepless night: There is nothing like being awaken (again middle of the night -apparently really bad, need to be dealt with immediately things only happen in the middle of the night when-yup you guessed it---I'm sleeping)- anyway, nothing like being awaken by that sleepy sounding child's voice. "Mom, I don't feel good...."
I opened one sleep-encrusted eye wide enough to see a sleepy seven year old covered with (peanut butter? syrup? dear god not feces?!!?) holy shit.... it's blood! The kid was covered in blood! All over his jammies, blood. His face , covered. His hair? More blood. Talk about hit the ground running!!! After we (read I-my then hubby grunted and rolled back to sleep---hmmm an indicator of things to come?)- ascertained that, no, he had not been stabbed by intruders, nor had he massacred his still sleeping siblings Ala Lizzie Borden (although I DID have to double check the oldest step sister-Geez, that kid could sleep through an earthquake--I am pure green with envy there!). It seems Son #1 has poor sinuses, and having turned the heat up before bed time, I inadvertently dried out the poor bugger's sinus cavity, thereby causing a nose bleed. He then proceeded, in his sleep, mind you, to wipe his nose on to every surface on or about his body. (That kid is a slob even when he's sleeping!!!)
And so it goes, another sleepless night for Mom. Well, the kids are older now, and the nosebleed kid is starting to drive. And his curfew is past my usual nine o'clock bedtime. Needless to say, I am more tired now than when they were babies. And there's a heck of a lot more to keep me up all night worrying, even when they are home in bed.
So, if you're a little tired from movie night, kiddo, just think of it as a little payback. And not to worry, 'cause I got us ANOTHER movie for tonight. And just maybe it's a wee bit longer than last night's feature film. Hey, I can't help myself. At least while he's watching the movie, maybe I can catch a nap!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Just When I Thought I Was Out, They Dragged Me Back In
An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old one leaves.
-Bill Vaughan
So what kind of person watches three hours of the new 86 episode Sopranos collection and is fast asleep by ten thirty on New Years Eve? I'm hoping it is the kind of person for which only good things happen in 2009. 2008 was a year of mixed blessings and sorrowful goodbyes, but I'll leave THAT kind of reminiscing to the professionals. Me? I'd rather bitch about stuff.
For example: Why, pray tell, will a 12 year old complain and moan about cleaning his bedroom for THREE days when it would only take him One hour to clean it? And on what feng shui chart does any room NOT include the closet? Or is that only when cleaning aforementioned room?
Why is it not such a great idea to piss away money on Chinese Take Out at the mall when it is the money of my 17 year old we are talking about? Does the cash in MY not even going to the mall handbag self pro-create?
And what IS it about my dogs, that they only feel the need to throw up on the SAME day as I have washed the kitchen floors ---In fact within hours of having done so, (which by the way, was the first time I've gotten to those damn floors in about a month---The entire time of which all dogs were healthy as horses, darn it!)
Did I mention we got dumped on by the Satan of Snow again? (To view mysuestories love of snow, check this post No Business Like Snow Business). Yep, and my abominable, yet adorable honey was there to the rescue, spreading pounds of ice melt salt all around the porch steps in the front of the house, the side door to the mudroom, and the deck off the back kitchen door. So, needless to say, we did NOT slip and break our ever loving necks on the ice. But that is NOT what I'm going to tell the coroner when I kill everyone for tracking all that impossible to clean salt off the tile and wood floors! (I think they are all conspiring with the dogs!)
And as long as SOMEBODY is listening.....
Does anyone else have that one person in their office/life that is just blatantly unaware of personal space? I have this one person(?) in my office who is just always upclose and personal. And she cannot order from a menu until she reviews and challenges EACH AND EVERY other person's order. Then she will change her own order a minimum of three times. I kid you not. Then, when your food does arrive, she will insist on getting up close and personal with " What did you get?" , "How is yours?" . I tell, you, there are just some days you want to deck her! Ignoring this type of person NEVER works! Trust me. I've tried to the tune of Chinese food, Italian, and Mexican. It just doesn't go away. I eat like a prisoner, all hunched over and growling, just a little something I learned from my alpha male dauschund. A big attitude from a little source. All this does not make the dining ala desk a soothing experience, let me tell ya.
And exactly what is the age of belief for a parent when offspring ask to take a plate upstairs and permission is granted after an interrogation Guantanamo Bay has yet to think up. And upon swearing under God, Flag, and Country, said offspring assures this parental idiot who just WANTS to believe in SOMETHING/ANYTHING they say......that said dish (Exhibit A) will return to kitchen IN dishwasher within seconds of all food upon it being inhaled.
So, why, dear reader, why do I find myself even mildly surprised to find that same plate with most of the same food now glued to it two weeks later while cleaning out the bathroom linen closet? (Hey, don't ask me...maybe it had something to do with all those "If you're going to chew like an animal you can eat in the barn," threats as toddlers?--Something along the lines of "When eatting shit......???!?)
Well, I don't know about you, constant reader, but I'm going back to my 86 hours of Sopranos episodes. Carmella's eggplant would NEVER have ended up in the bathroom---at least not in it's uneaten form. And Tony and his friends? At least they put the enemy out of his misery quickly. Time to go to the mattresses.
-Bill Vaughan
So what kind of person watches three hours of the new 86 episode Sopranos collection and is fast asleep by ten thirty on New Years Eve? I'm hoping it is the kind of person for which only good things happen in 2009. 2008 was a year of mixed blessings and sorrowful goodbyes, but I'll leave THAT kind of reminiscing to the professionals. Me? I'd rather bitch about stuff.
For example: Why, pray tell, will a 12 year old complain and moan about cleaning his bedroom for THREE days when it would only take him One hour to clean it? And on what feng shui chart does any room NOT include the closet? Or is that only when cleaning aforementioned room?
Why is it not such a great idea to piss away money on Chinese Take Out at the mall when it is the money of my 17 year old we are talking about? Does the cash in MY not even going to the mall handbag self pro-create?
And what IS it about my dogs, that they only feel the need to throw up on the SAME day as I have washed the kitchen floors ---In fact within hours of having done so, (which by the way, was the first time I've gotten to those damn floors in about a month---The entire time of which all dogs were healthy as horses, darn it!)
Did I mention we got dumped on by the Satan of Snow again? (To view mysuestories love of snow, check this post No Business Like Snow Business). Yep, and my abominable, yet adorable honey was there to the rescue, spreading pounds of ice melt salt all around the porch steps in the front of the house, the side door to the mudroom, and the deck off the back kitchen door. So, needless to say, we did NOT slip and break our ever loving necks on the ice. But that is NOT what I'm going to tell the coroner when I kill everyone for tracking all that impossible to clean salt off the tile and wood floors! (I think they are all conspiring with the dogs!)
And as long as SOMEBODY is listening.....
Does anyone else have that one person in their office/life that is just blatantly unaware of personal space? I have this one person(?) in my office who is just always upclose and personal. And she cannot order from a menu until she reviews and challenges EACH AND EVERY other person's order. Then she will change her own order a minimum of three times. I kid you not. Then, when your food does arrive, she will insist on getting up close and personal with " What did you get?" , "How is yours?" . I tell, you, there are just some days you want to deck her! Ignoring this type of person NEVER works! Trust me. I've tried to the tune of Chinese food, Italian, and Mexican. It just doesn't go away. I eat like a prisoner, all hunched over and growling, just a little something I learned from my alpha male dauschund. A big attitude from a little source. All this does not make the dining ala desk a soothing experience, let me tell ya.
And exactly what is the age of belief for a parent when offspring ask to take a plate upstairs and permission is granted after an interrogation Guantanamo Bay has yet to think up. And upon swearing under God, Flag, and Country, said offspring assures this parental idiot who just WANTS to believe in SOMETHING/ANYTHING they say......that said dish (Exhibit A) will return to kitchen IN dishwasher within seconds of all food upon it being inhaled.
So, why, dear reader, why do I find myself even mildly surprised to find that same plate with most of the same food now glued to it two weeks later while cleaning out the bathroom linen closet? (Hey, don't ask me...maybe it had something to do with all those "If you're going to chew like an animal you can eat in the barn," threats as toddlers?--Something along the lines of "When eatting shit......???!?)
Well, I don't know about you, constant reader, but I'm going back to my 86 hours of Sopranos episodes. Carmella's eggplant would NEVER have ended up in the bathroom---at least not in it's uneaten form. And Tony and his friends? At least they put the enemy out of his misery quickly. Time to go to the mattresses.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Auld Lang Syne - It NEVER Gets Old
New Year's Eve Eve is here. Woo hoo! New Year's Eve has never really been my big thing. Amateur night, you know? Where all those who really can't/shouldn't/usually don't party hard always over emphasize/over prepare/over imbibe....and inevitably are overly disappointed and deservedly hung over. Hang overs at this stage of life are too time consuming to waste a day to the couch. Not to say it doesn't happen occasionally, it's just not something I PLAN for.
Now, my hubby had quite different plans for New Year's. For the past ten years(?) or so, he and A LOT of his cronies would gather at his home on New Year's DAY starting at six a.m. and cook breakfast (french toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, bagels, etc) while heavily imbibing in spirits of choice. Breakfast toasts takes on new meaning here. By noon, the chili (lots of chili) was being served alongside marinated deer ribs, boar, pulled pork, and any number of assorted pot luck dishes. The evening would set in with even more food and even more drinks and a steady influx of new guests arriving as the earliest revelers departed. As the evening would wind down around eight or nine, the twenty somethings (who had slept all day due to being out all night New Year's Eve) would start to take up residence, continuing the party till the wee hours of January 2ND.
Having joined/signed up/ been abducted into this household, I've had the pleasure and fun to witness some great moments at the behest of ringing in the New Year Ala Wesley. First rule of thumb- You don't want to go out the night before and actually celebrate the incoming New Year at midnight LIKE THE REST OF THE WORLD. This would result in a major headache and the urge to kill the people who will continue to knock on the door at six am whether you answer it or not. Nope, not this crowd. In fact, most Wesley-ans (large masses of like minded people as per mysuestories) stay home the night before, and rumor has it (to this I can attest) most of them are fast asleep before ten p.m., with visions of spirits and chili dancing through their heads. It appears this rare breed of people take their revelry very seriously.
Part of the challenge is to see who will appear first (although three years in to this, I can tell you, people, don't even try to beat Jimmy, who will arrive super early and immediately take over the kitchen cooking duties as well as a fine bottle of scotch!) From then on, the crowd swells and ebbs, the libations flowing, and the laughter insurmountably growing.
This is not to say these events are not without their moments. LOTS of moments. There was the year one female party goer wanted to kick the very inebriated butt of another female reveler (can you say cat fight anyone?) because the second feline had accidentally spilled a beer on an innocent bystander tom cat, neither of which either knew or cared to know him. That's got to be a great feeling, when you, the innocent tom, have two unknown kittens ready to gouge each other's eyes out over you!
There was the drunken party-er who was clearly not fit to drive, and accepted an extremely gracious offer by another non drinking guest to drive him quite out of her way to his home. Once in the car, said over indulger proceeded to thank her by telling her what an ugly bi och she was(!?!). And SHE was kind enough to continue to take him home. I would have left his ass in front of the nearest police department in the driver's seat of my car with the keys super glued to his hands which would then be glued to the steering wheel. (I would NEVER actually give him a chance to drive drunk and possibly harm my car in any way!)
There is our other dear friend, whom we made arrangements to have driven home in her car, while another followed to drive her driver back. This particular friend was of the variety that insisted she was pertectly/perfly/profectly fine to drive home. She then proceeded to get into the passenger seat of her car to do so.
And, my personal favorite. We have a dear friend who doesn't always drink well, and said friend should probably not overdue it in the alcohol department. Sloppy Sam, as his alcohol imbibing persona is known, would occasionally overindulge, with the nickname being descriptive of the eventual outcome.
That being said, this was a party, and we don't always do what's best. At some point in the evening, my dear hubby called me to look out our back door into the rain that had begun to fall. There, in the mud beyond our back steps, was a quite inebriated Sam, who true to his name, was quite sloppily rolling around on the ground. Luckily, an equally inebriated female attendee, was attempting to assist him in getting to his feet, and ended up straddling him in the mud. The resulting view was of two people simulating sex in the mud with their clothes on. I turned to my hubby and said, "What should we do?", to which he wholeheartedly replied, "nothing", as he led me away and back into the house.
Yes, these parties are fun and entertaining. And no, thank God, no one has ever been hurt or injured in the making of such fun (unless you count the brain cells that never made it back out of the door on those days). And we share here only with the greatest intention of sharing laughter and nothing more. And I am sure, truth be told, I have done more than my share of providing the laughter as opposed to just reporting it. You just won't be reading those episodes here. Hey, you've heard of poetic license, right?
Anyway, go about your New Year's celebration in whatever way makes you happiest. Me? I'm just gonna pull a chair up on the back porch and let the holiday unfold around me.
Have a happy and a healthy! And please, don't drive drunk. I can't afford to lose what little readership I have. Happy New Year! And thanks for reading, oh constant reader.
Now, my hubby had quite different plans for New Year's. For the past ten years(?) or so, he and A LOT of his cronies would gather at his home on New Year's DAY starting at six a.m. and cook breakfast (french toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, bagels, etc) while heavily imbibing in spirits of choice. Breakfast toasts takes on new meaning here. By noon, the chili (lots of chili) was being served alongside marinated deer ribs, boar, pulled pork, and any number of assorted pot luck dishes. The evening would set in with even more food and even more drinks and a steady influx of new guests arriving as the earliest revelers departed. As the evening would wind down around eight or nine, the twenty somethings (who had slept all day due to being out all night New Year's Eve) would start to take up residence, continuing the party till the wee hours of January 2ND.
Having joined/signed up/ been abducted into this household, I've had the pleasure and fun to witness some great moments at the behest of ringing in the New Year Ala Wesley. First rule of thumb- You don't want to go out the night before and actually celebrate the incoming New Year at midnight LIKE THE REST OF THE WORLD. This would result in a major headache and the urge to kill the people who will continue to knock on the door at six am whether you answer it or not. Nope, not this crowd. In fact, most Wesley-ans (large masses of like minded people as per mysuestories) stay home the night before, and rumor has it (to this I can attest) most of them are fast asleep before ten p.m., with visions of spirits and chili dancing through their heads. It appears this rare breed of people take their revelry very seriously.
Part of the challenge is to see who will appear first (although three years in to this, I can tell you, people, don't even try to beat Jimmy, who will arrive super early and immediately take over the kitchen cooking duties as well as a fine bottle of scotch!) From then on, the crowd swells and ebbs, the libations flowing, and the laughter insurmountably growing.
This is not to say these events are not without their moments. LOTS of moments. There was the year one female party goer wanted to kick the very inebriated butt of another female reveler (can you say cat fight anyone?) because the second feline had accidentally spilled a beer on an innocent bystander tom cat, neither of which either knew or cared to know him. That's got to be a great feeling, when you, the innocent tom, have two unknown kittens ready to gouge each other's eyes out over you!
There was the drunken party-er who was clearly not fit to drive, and accepted an extremely gracious offer by another non drinking guest to drive him quite out of her way to his home. Once in the car, said over indulger proceeded to thank her by telling her what an ugly bi och she was(!?!). And SHE was kind enough to continue to take him home. I would have left his ass in front of the nearest police department in the driver's seat of my car with the keys super glued to his hands which would then be glued to the steering wheel. (I would NEVER actually give him a chance to drive drunk and possibly harm my car in any way!)
There is our other dear friend, whom we made arrangements to have driven home in her car, while another followed to drive her driver back. This particular friend was of the variety that insisted she was pertectly/perfly/profectly fine to drive home. She then proceeded to get into the passenger seat of her car to do so.
And, my personal favorite. We have a dear friend who doesn't always drink well, and said friend should probably not overdue it in the alcohol department. Sloppy Sam, as his alcohol imbibing persona is known, would occasionally overindulge, with the nickname being descriptive of the eventual outcome.
That being said, this was a party, and we don't always do what's best. At some point in the evening, my dear hubby called me to look out our back door into the rain that had begun to fall. There, in the mud beyond our back steps, was a quite inebriated Sam, who true to his name, was quite sloppily rolling around on the ground. Luckily, an equally inebriated female attendee, was attempting to assist him in getting to his feet, and ended up straddling him in the mud. The resulting view was of two people simulating sex in the mud with their clothes on. I turned to my hubby and said, "What should we do?", to which he wholeheartedly replied, "nothing", as he led me away and back into the house.
Yes, these parties are fun and entertaining. And no, thank God, no one has ever been hurt or injured in the making of such fun (unless you count the brain cells that never made it back out of the door on those days). And we share here only with the greatest intention of sharing laughter and nothing more. And I am sure, truth be told, I have done more than my share of providing the laughter as opposed to just reporting it. You just won't be reading those episodes here. Hey, you've heard of poetic license, right?
Anyway, go about your New Year's celebration in whatever way makes you happiest. Me? I'm just gonna pull a chair up on the back porch and let the holiday unfold around me.
Have a happy and a healthy! And please, don't drive drunk. I can't afford to lose what little readership I have. Happy New Year! And thanks for reading, oh constant reader.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)