Teach Your Children Well

I take pride in the job I'm doing raising WyoBaby. The tools I'm giving her are invaluable, and it doesn't hurt that she's a quick study. I submit the following for your consideration.

Exhibit A: WyoBaby, like most sweet children, has issues with keeping her room clean and organized. Consequently, she has trouble finding 'important' things at crucial moments. Shocking, I know. Tuesday morning, we were getting ready to head to a bigger town, about two hours away. WyoBaby panics if she thinks she has to travel longer than 15 minutes without her dvd player. Good parenting, right? She was wildly scrambling to locate the car charger for said player, and wasn't just hitting the panic button, she was jumping up and down on the dang thing. She kept coming to me, "MOM! I CAN'T FIND THE CHARGER FOR MY DVD PLAYER!!!! DO YOU KNOW WHERE IT IS???" Here was my chance to teach her that our choices have consequences!

"Well, Baby, if you would keep your room clean, and organize all your various electronic stuff, you'd know exactly where the charger is, wouldn't you? I'm sorry you can't find your charger, but it's not my fault. Maybe you'll make a different choice next time, hmmmmm?"

Stomping off, "(Mumble), find it myself, (mumble)!!"

I am such a good mother.

Unfortunately, she didn't take my words to heart, because she managed to get almost two hours' viewing time out of the dvd player, and when that died, she had her fully charged iPod Nano to pick up the slack. Dang.

Exhibit B: Back to her bedroom, two weeks ago. She was trying to find shoes suitable for cruising the links, as her golf lesson started in 15 minutes. Again, her room looked like the Mole People had taken up residence, burrowing in piles of clothes and toys, tossing things sky-high in the process, devil-may-care where they land. While she put on her shoes, she reveled in the antics of Things 1 & 2, aka Big Kitty and Little Kitty. Her little funny bone was particularly tickled by one of them cavorting around the room, and she remarked, "I love her! She's my favorite!!" While she was busy tying laces, I was making my way through a mountain of clothes, and could feel a stroke coming. There, mixed in with DS games, posters, markers, Littlest Pet Shop accessories and discarded gum and Popsicle wrappers, were clean, still-folded clothes. I would like to publicly apologize to my dear sweet mom for every single time I tossed my clean, still-folded clothes on my bedroom floor, and for every single piece of clean, still-folded clothing she found mixed in with the dirty laundry in the hamper. I am so sorry. If I'd only known how close I came to putting you in your very own rubber room, I would've stopped. Probably. Well, let's face it, all kids pull this move, so I might not've stopped, but I am sorry. Deeply.
So, while WyoBaby was remarking on her undying love for Things 1 & 2, I was fighting the urge to do my best Mount Saint Helens impersonation. Instead, I replied, "You know what I love? I love finding clean, still-folded clothes tossed on your floor, left to get dirty! That's my favorite!"
Without so much as batting an eye, after a beat, she said, "You're being sarcastic, aren't you??"

"Yes I am."

"Hmm."

And just like that, she ended the conversation. No 'I'm sorry, Momma', no 'I'll do better next time, Momma'. Just, 'Hmm'. Oh, she's good.

Exhibit C: I'm not entirely sure why, but I was doing a lot of heavy sighing yesterday. I hadn't really noticed, until J & WyoBaby were gathering fishing gear, getting ready to head out to hook The Big One. Apparently, as I was observing, I emitted a big sigh. Immediately, both heads snapped around, and in chorus, I heard, "What's wrong???!!" It's a beautiful thing.

"Nothing, actually. But I do love that I can get an immediate response from both of you, just by heaving a sigh! Oh, I love you two knuckle heads. Have fun fishing!"

While they fished, I headed out to the movie with my girlfriends. On a side note, I loved that movie. Charlie St. Cloud was wonderful. Zac Efron was beyond wonderful. And, I shed a tear or twelve. Go see it, I think you'll like it. But I digress.

After we were all back under one roof, and J had put himself to bed, (because it was after dark, which is way past J's bedtime) WyoBaby and I were watching The Nanny (Guilty pleasure, I'll admit it! Not the best choice out there, but I like to indulge every once in a while.), when I let out yet another sigh. "Mom! What's wrong?" Have I mentioned how deeply gratifying this is to me?

"Nothing, Baby. Sometimes, my sighs are just sighs. But, other times, they mean someone is in big trouble."

"Oh, well let me try." She inhaled sharply, and let out a blast of air.

"Close, Kiddo, but it needs to be more subtle. Like this. Inhale deeply, then slowly exhale, as if the very act of breathing in the same room as the offender is causing you physical pain." She practiced for a bit, taking pointers from me, until she came close to imitating The Sigh. I felt it was my responsibility to caution her, "Now, Baby? This is a very powerful tool. You can't just willy-nilly throw around The Sigh. If you use it too much, it loses its potency. If you don't do it just right, no one will pay attention. Practice all you want now, so when you're a wife and mother, you'll have it down pat."

Mother of the Year. Right here.

Simple, Six Ingredient Salad

Oh how I love alliteration; it speaks to my inner English geek.

So, last night, I grilled six, count 'em six, Tilapia fillets for dinner. Those, along with three ears of corn, should've fed my family of three. Shoulda woulda coulda. WyoBaby was too busy playing outside with a dozen neighborhood kids to stop and eat, and J wasn't home from work yet. I helped myself to two fillets and an ear of corn. If my math is correct, and I like to think it is, that left four fillets. WyoBaby LOVES fish, so I figured she'd eat one fillet, (that's actually a lot of food for her, when you add an ear of corn), leaving three for J. Well, J came home and dished up his plate. I was doing something exciting, like laundry, so I paid little attention to his shenanigans. WyoBaby was still running around the yard like a screamin' street urchin. After a bit, I went in to tidy up the kitchen, and fix a plate for her, since it truly was time for her to eat. Imagine my surprise when both of the foil boats I'd used to grill the fish were empty! Insert heavy sigh here.

"J, did you eat ALL of the fish??"

"Yeah."

"Slight problem. Our sweet baby girl hasn't eaten her dinner."

"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT!"

"Easy, Tiger. I know I didn't, which is why you're not getting The Eye right now. So just un-bunch your Fruit of the Looms, and pipe down."

"Fine." At this point, I may or may not have stuck out my tongue at him. All in fun, of course. I pride myself of my mature conflict-resolution strategies.

I stepped outside, and managed to yell over the din of a dozen hooligans, "WyoBaby! Come HERE, I need to talk to you!!!!"

"Um, okay..."

"You're not in trouble, I just need to talk to you." I do like the fact that I can still strike fear in her with the phrase, 'I need to talk to you'. It warms my heart.
"So, daddy ate all the fish."

"WHAT???!!"

"It's sorta my fault. I didn't tell him you hadn't eaten yet (and he didn't bother to ask before eating all the fish in sight), so he didn't know he needed to leave some for you. But, I do have some pork chops in the fridge I can cook for you."

"Fine. That'll work. Is there at least some CORN left??"

"Yes Baby, there is, so I'll give ya some corn and pork, mmmmkay?" I'm not sure she heard that last bit, as she'd run off to rejoin the others.

Short story long, I threw some chops in the oven to bake, as I'd already shut down the grill for the night. And, WyoBaby was fine. She ate one chop, and three bites of corn, and declared herself, "stuffed to the gills!!".

Fast forward to an hour ago. WyoMomma was hungry, so I went in search of sustenance. I had baked four chops, so there were three left this morning. Bask in the glory of my math skills, won't you? We also had some spinach, so I decided to make myself a salad, and it was sooooo yummy, I'm sharing it with you! It took about 10 minutes to throw together, and most of that time was spent letting the dressing simmer.

Six Ingredient Pork & Spinach Salad

Ingredients:
1 can of blackberries (I used Oregon brand)
2 T balsamic vinegar
1 boneless pork loin chop, cooked ('cuz that's what I had on hand)
1/4 C walnut pieces (you could use pecans also)
3 handfuls fresh spinach
Manchego cheese

In small saucepan, combine 1/2 can of the blackberries & their juices with the vinegar. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer while preparing the other ingredients. Stir occasionally.
In small skillet, toast walnuts over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes.
Thinly slice chop. Once walnuts are toasted, remove from pan, add pork to pan to heat.
Place spinach in a large plate or bowl, top with walnuts, pork and dressing. Using a vegetable peeler, garnish the salad with some thin slices of Manchego cheese. Toss to coat all with dressing, season with salt & pepper.

Seriously simple, and seriously yummy. The dressing is sweet and savory, the walnuts are buttery, and the Manchego adds a nutty, salty goodness to bring it all together. This served one, so you could certainly double, triple or even quadruple this recipe to serve others, if you're feeling generous. You might want to, because they'll love you for it, and you can tell them you slaved for simply ages! This is my new favorite summer salad. I hope you find it as blissful as I did, both in simplicity and taste. It would also work well with leftover chicken or steak, and of course, you can cook the meat specifically for this, if you don't have leftovers.

'Helping' Around The House, Part Two

Since I told on J last time, it's only fair I turn the tables this time. I know it might be hard to believe, but I'm not perfect. Yikes! And it just so happens that my relationship with J runs something like this: I break it, he fixes it. Yin and Yang, right here. Case in point, the garbage disposal.

Back before they all went belly up and headed for the Great Tank in the Sky, WyoBaby owned a few fish. You may recall they were fish of the filthy variety, which meant their tank needed to be cleaned every 4 to 6 hours. (That didn't happen.) Truly, the task was too great for WyoBaby to undertake by herself; enter WyoMomma. Together, we would net and transfer all the fish, take the decorations, plants, filter and bubble bar out of the murky depths, and I would siphon all the yucky water out of the tank. Once that was done, we'd rinse all the decorations, which sometimes had errant pieces of gravel stuck to them. And sometimes, when I rinsed them in the sink, those little stinkers would run down the drain, landing in the garbage disposal. And sometimes, I would 'forget' to retrieve the little boulders.

Here's my thought process when there's something jammed in the disposal, "I am NOT sticking my right hand down there, because if there's some freak accident, I refuse to sacrifice my writing/typing hand!" So the left hand takes one for the team. Usually, I can retrieve the lodged object without loss of limb. But sometimes, when the object is fish tank gravel, it's too tricky to retrieve, so I just send lots of water down the drain, hoping it'll dislodge the gravel. That doesn't always work.

A word about J and the disposal. When he finished installing it, he handed me a sizable Allen wrench and said, "Here. Put this somewhere near the sink. You'll need it to access the bottom of the disposal, if something should happen to get jammed in there. Once you remove the cover, you can manually turn the blades with this little beauty, and fix the problem." And this is what I heard and registered in my brain, "Here. Put this somewhere near the sink. Blah blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah." You wanna know why? Because I have someone to fix these sorts of problems. His name is J. I feed and clothe him so I don't have to remember the 'blah blah blah' stuff.

So, the last time I cleaned the tank, some gravel ended up in the disposal. I knew that, but basically chose to ignore it. Told ya I'm not perfect. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal. Days later, it was. I sent some egg shells, lemon pieces, and last night's plate scrapings down the drain, and flipped the switch. The disposal made some weird motor sound, like it was trying to work, but just couldn't get there. Here's how I fixed it: I flipped the switch up and down in rapid succession, like a mad woman. My theory was one of two things would happen, either the disposal would magically start working again, or it would burst into flames. And, if it burst into flames, the fact that it wasn't 'disposing' would be the least of my concerns. Either way, problem solved! My genius surprises even me, sometimes. What I did not expect is that it would simply stop doing anything. No noise, no grinding, no flames (imagine my disappointment). At this point, I became rather concerned. But, I figured I'd just thrown the breaker, so I went to investigate. Are you impressed that I knew where the circuit box is? You should be. I am familiar with circuit breakers, thanks to the World's Largest Microwave, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, I shortly realized that it wasn't the circuit breaker, and I was entering foreign territory. So I walked away from that disposal. Outta sight, outta mind.

When J got home that night, I announced, "The disposal isn't working."

"What do you mean 'the disposal isn't working'?"

Funny, I understood what I said...

"I mean, I flipped the switch, and nothing happened." Not a total untruth; no flames came shooting out the bottom, right?

"So, when you flipped the switch, did it do anything? Like make a sound?"

"Nope." You and I know better, but why trouble him with those details???

"Hunh. Guess I'll take a look. Maybe it just gave up the ghost."

"It's practically brand new!! Did you buy a cheap one?!"

"Well, it's not commercial grade, if that's what you're asking."

"So you bought a cheap one. Great. Now we're going to have to buy a new one. A less-than-cheap one."

"We'll see. Let me take a look at it first."

"Fine." At which point, we headed to the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and whaddya know? Nothing happened. Just like I said. So, he rounded up his tools, emptied the cabinet of all my cleaning supplies, and set to work dismantling the little stinker. He rooted around for awhile then asked, "Where's that Allen wrench?" Suddenly, it all came back to me. ('Oh yeah, the Allen wrench! Guess I coulda tried that before I told him about the problem. Oh well.') "Ummm, it's right here. Right where you told me to keep it."

He started turning the blades and asked, "Is there some sort of dirt or gravel in there?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, there might be. I might've accidentally rinsed some fish tank gravel down there..."

"Well, that's probably what did it!"

"Okay, it's my fault, I'll admit it! It is fish tank gravel!! And if you fix my disposal, it'll never happen again!!!" And just like that, my disposal was fixed. Which is a very good thing, because I don't function well without a disposal. I send everything through that baby (obviously), because it's just so EASY. The other very good thing was the death of the swimmers shortly thereafter, which guaranteed I'd never 'accidentally' send fish tank gravel down the disposal again.

Next time: 'Helping with Laundry'

Wednesday Night's Alright With Me

So, two, count 'em two, posts in one day!! Holy Smokes, People!! Why? Because. Because J, in a stroke of Husband Genius, invited yours truly on a date. J does this on the twelfth of every Never. So, when J does this sort of thing, it merits a double post. Do not get used to it. I cannot guarantee that the next twelfth of Never will ever roll around again. But, The Man did good. Especially since we recently had A Talk. Most times, when we talk, I talk, and his eyes glaze over. He nods occasionally, but I'm fairly certain none of it sinks in - it just rolls right off him. But that is neither here nor there, the point is, The Man took me on a date. Feel free to celebrate with me, won't you?

He told me I could pick, so I did. I chose the local Elite Clubhouse Restaurant, mostly because it's always fairly quiet, the scenery is spectacular, and you don't have to wait an hour for a table, even when you have a reservation. This last part came in handy when J called me at 5:10 tonight and said, "Um, I'm going to leave this Small Town in ten minutes, which'll put me home right at reservation time, can you call and push it back 15 minutes??" No prob, Bob. Other places, the Maitre d' might look down his nose at you, and say, "I'm sorry (not really), but you were 15 seconds late for your reservation, so we gave away your table." The Man got lucky; we were shown to a table as soon as we arrived. I promptly ordered wine, because this Momma likes her wine. And The Man? Well, he ordered a gin and tonic. Because he's crazy like that. Momma is not a fan of the gin, but The Man is, on occasion. After poring over the menu for ages, we both settled on the special, a ribeye steak au poivre. To summarize, it's a pepper encrusted steak, served with a wonderful cream sauce. It should've been a home run. Here's my verdict: It was okay. People, I don't mean to brag, but I'm gonna. Here's the issue I have with paying other people to cook for me-I can most likely do it better. Yes, that sounds terribly arrogant and high-brow, but there it is. I have made steak au poivre, to the delight of young and old. The problem with this one? Whole peppercorns. True, the crust is not made with the little black powder, loosely termed as ground pepper, but this? This was too much. I couldn't taste the steak. All I could taste was pepper. And I was bummed. Even J was disappointed, and that says a little something. J is not the food critic I am. But I yam what I yam. The dinner finished on a good note, because the vanilla creme brulee was fab. Oh, the creme brulee and the cheesecake and I are tight. I passed on the cheesecake, because it was white chocolate, and the white chocolate and I are not so tight. But, the creme brulee was especially nice; it was a soft creamy custard, with a fabulous brulee! And the berries were a nice touch.

So, all in all, I give the meal three stars. But the company? Oh the company gets one thousand stars, because The Man took me on a date, said, "Order whatever you want", and listened to me jabber on the entire meal. Because I am the talker in this partnership, by far. J is not a talker. But after tonight, that's okay, because I know how wonderful he can be, even when he doesn't say a thing.

Taking License

We'll get back to Helping Around the House next time, but for now, I feel the need to tell you a humorous anecdote.

Summer is in full swing around our house, which includes Science Kids Camps for WyoBaby. Her most recent was a fly fishing camp, and she is hooked (Yes, slight pun intended. You're welcome.)! I actually went with the kiddos last Thursday, but had no grand scheme of wetting my own line. I knew, going in, that I would be otherwise engaged. My group was four of my favorite small people, and they kept me on my toes.

"Dang! Just lost another fly!!"

"Oh man, I'm caught in that tree again!!!"

"Grrrr. I can't find the fish anywhere!!"

"Hey! They're in the water, splashing around and scaring all the fish!!! Will you make them stop????"

"He just took my fishing spot!! I was there, but I had to leave to get a new fly, and now he won't MOVE!! Will you tell him to MOVE????"

And once or twice:

"OH MY GOSH!!! I CAUGHT A FISH!!! QUICK, TAKE A PICTURE!!!"



Oh yes, I got my workout that day. After lunch, we let the kids get in the water and splash and swim, because it was surface-of-the-sun hot out there. The director, who's a bit vigilant about germs, asked, "Do you think this was a bad idea? I mean, who knows what's in this water???" To which I replied, "They're fine! Heck, my brothers and I all but grew gills in the summer when we were kids; we spent so much time in the irrigation ditch. Look at me! I turned out just fine!"
On second thought..."Kids!! LISTEN UP!! Do NOT drink the water!! Keep your heads out of the water!! No diving! And when you get home, tell your parents you need to bathe a.s.a.p!! Mmmkay? Now, you may resume your splashing!"



All in all, it was a fabulous outing, and when we got home, WyoBaby began making her play for another fishing trip. Okay with me, maybe I'd actually fish this time! So, we made arrangements to procure a fly rod for me, and a spinning rod for J (He and I do NOT share an affinity for fly fishing. It's another deal breaker, but we've agreed to disagree, and to never discuss it at any length.), both borrowed from my brother J, who was going out of town, and could spare the fly rod. Next step was a fishing license for WyoMomma. I was in the clear when I was just helping the kids, but if I were to put rod to reel and tie one on, and avoid a monster fine, I would need said license. I'm big on obeying laws when the breaking of them carries hefty fines. Kinda silly, eh?

WyoBaby and one of her friends piled into the car, and away we went. Straight to the nearest gas station/convenience store/bait & tackle shop. It's a fine establishment, if you want some night crawlers, a coupla gallons of mid-grade, and 120 ounces of your favorite soda. A one-stop shop, if you will. So obviously, the standards for staff decorum are a bit lax. Enter the Fishing License Gal. I strolled up to the counter, and announced, "I'd like one fishing license, please." The woman at the register grunted and pointed to another gal at the end of the counter. "Oh, so I need to see her about a license? Okay, thank you for your help." (And your eloquence.) Away I sauntered, leaving WyoBaby and Friend to explore the wonders of live and jarred bait.

Allow me to set the scene. As I approached, this is what I observed. There sat a youngish gal, perched on a bar stool, staring into a computer screen, with a mouthful of Spitz sunflower seeds, and plastic water bottle she'd converted to a spittoon. Nice.

"Excuse me, I'd like a fishing license, please."

Mumble, spit. "Driver's License?" Spit.

"Oh, sure. Here ya go."

Silence. Spit. Type. Silence. Spit. Type. Mumble, "How" mumble, spit, "years" mumble mumble, spit, "resident?" spit.

"Pardon?"

"How" spit spit "many years" spit spit "have you been" mumble, spit "resident?"

Oh crap. Does that ever happen to you? It's something you should know, right off the top of your head! I mean, how many years have I lived in Wyoming? All of them!! But my little brain, distracted by the spitting glory in front of me, felt like a deer in the headlights! "Ummm. Oh yeah, now I remember. Thirty-two. Yep. Thirty-two years."

Grunt.

So there I stood, in stunned silence, while this gal typed & clicked. I was not altogether comfortable with the fact that she had my driver's license, and I couldn't see what exactly she was doing on that computer. For all I knew, she could've been enrolling me in a jelly-of-the-month club, or adding my name to one hundred junk mail lists. I longed for the old days, when you filled out the form with all of your vital info, rather than putting it in the hands of a stranger.

"Is this" spit spit spit mumble "right address?" spit spit spit spit (Hark! Fair Juliet speaks!).

"Huh? What did you ask?"

Spit "Is this your correct" spit spit spit "address??" spit spit.

"Oh. Yes. Yes it is." As far as I knew. I basically had no idea which parallel universe I'd entered, but I knew I wanted out. And how. Meanwhile, WyoBaby and her friend were an aisle away, examining the jars of bait fish, "Ewwww, that's GROSS!! Mom! Check this out!!!" "Mom!!! What the heck is this???" Serenity now.

The gal finished, and announced, spit spit spit mumble "Thirty-six fifty," spit.

"What?? I'm sorry, what the heck did you say???"

Spit "That'll be $36.50!"

"Oh, okay. Here. Take it. Take it all! But wait! What about my conservation stamp??"

Spit spit spit "included, sign here" spit spit spit spit.

"Well, thanks. Could I have a little plastic sleeve to protect my license, since I'll be, you know, fishing, and there's a chance I might get near some water?"

Mumble spit spit mumble "all out."

"Fine, that's fine. Thank you for all your help. WYOBABY!!! LET'S GO!! NOW!! PUT DOWN THE JAR OF MINNOWS AND GET IN THE CAR!!!"

I burned rubber out of there as quickly as I could, and headed home. Where we waited. And waited. Because it was four in the afternoon, which is hot time, and I was not all about fishing in hot time. Finally, at seven, we headed out to catch the big one. We ran into one of our favorite little friends, whose Mam and Pa had agreed to some fishing as well, and the kids were thrilled. We fished happily, until the mosquitoes were the only things biting, then ran for the safety of Big Red. All in all, it was an interesting day. And now, I'm good to fish for an entire year, before I get to visit my little license friend again.

'Helping' Around the House, Part One

So, my 'puter has been circling the drain for quite some time now, but thanks to Hubs, the Wizard of IT (Get it? It's like the Wizard of ID, only with IT...*tap tap* Is this thing on?), who happens to be married to one of my bestest friends, the ol' HP is back up and running. Sorta. As much as a PC can run. Have I mentioned I HATE PCs? Oh but I do. But that's another story. Today, I'd like to talk about J. I've mentioned him once or twice, right? Fancies himself an Axe Man, has a (somewhat closeted) affection for cats, devilishly handsome? Okay, good. Just makin' sure we're on the same page.

So, J occasionally tries his hand at 'helping' around the house. Some days he's more successful than others. The other night, he tried to help with dinner. Shall I set the scene? Okay, I will. J came home from work , cracked open a cold one, and placed his tush in a chair outside, while WyoBaby and I checked on all my flowers and plants. It was around the dinner hour, so she asked if we could go out to eat, so I wouldn't have to cook that night. (How cute is she?!) When she ran it by The Man, he replied, "Why don't we wait 'till Thursday, and we'll go to the Third Thursday Festival and eat out, mmmkay?" Well, WyoBaby's more into instant than delayed gratification, but she agreed anyway. After tossing back the Dos Equis, J announced he was going to shower. I continued to water my flowers. Right about the time he was all squeaky clean, I strolled inside to get dinner crackin', and he offered to help. Fine by me. I was going to take a shower while he grilled burgers. As I walked out of the kitchen, he said, "Where's the burger?" I replied, "Um, in the fridge." "I don't see it." (Of course you don't. You looked a whole nano-second before you asked me to find it.) "It's on the top shelf." Of course, because I only serve Top Shelf Beef...These are the jokes people! I'm calling my agent...
So I retrieved the burger, and headed off in search of soap and water. I almost made it out of the kitchen before, "How do I make the patties?" (Did a large piece of equipment smack you in the head today?) "You season the beef, then make the patties." "Okay, what do I season it with?" (Lord, give me strength!) "The Worcestershire and the Greek Seasoning." "So I put the beef in a bowl and add the seasonings?" "Mmm-hmm." "Which bowl?" "It really doesn't matter, just pick one!" "So, how much seasoning do I use?" At this point, I was ready to kiss my shower good-bye. "Just eye-ball it!" "Okay, but what temp should I cook 'em at?" (So when you offered to help, exactly how did you envision that scenario?) "Medium-low, otherwise you'll catch the fat on fire." "What kind of cheese should I use?" "Well, considering you just ate the last of the sliced cheddar, I guess you'll have to LOOK IN THE CHEESE DRAWER!" "All I see is mozzarella, Gorgonzola, and some smoked cheese." "Yeah, that would be apple wood smoked mozzarella." "It could be, I didn't really look." (Ya don't say?) "Well it is. It's apple wood smoked mozzarella. So those are your choices. What you see is what you get. Now make grill magic happen. I stink, and I want to shower!" He might have called out more questions, but I couldn't say, because I had tuned him out. I emerged from the shower a new woman, and went to check on Chef Boyardee. As I strolled into the kitchen, he called out, "You might want to check those burgers, I'm not sure how they're doing." And to think I was going to have to cook tonight...I could see the smoke out the kitchen window, so I was pretty sure he had not taken my advice re: the temp of the grill. "Looks to me like you're burning 'em." "No, they're fine, just come take a quick peek, wouldya?" Fine. Did I mention how much I appreciate your offer to cook dinner? No? Hmm. He followed me, like a puppy, out to the grill. Upon opening the lid, I was greeted by big flames. Too big to be doing anything besides turning burger patties into hockey pucks. "What do you think? Should I turn the heat down, and maybe move the burgers to the cooler side of the grill?" "Ya think?" "What about cheese? Should I put the cheese on 'em now?" "Yep." I turned on my heel and walked away. In the end, the burgers turned out okay, but I learned an important lesson: Help means something entirely different to J than it does to me. And, it's not a good idea to allow him to use the grill, unsupervised.

I've been sent back to the Dark Ages, technologically speaking. My laptop usually gets a signal from my wireless router, so I can connect to the internet anywhere in our house. But that has all changed. I tried to connect and BLAM! no connection, no network, no router, nothing. My little laptop couldn't find anything. I've been down this road before, so I went through the usual steps to resolve the issue. They didn't work. So I gave in and called the cable company. I then spent the next 35 minutes on the phone with a disembodied female voice (read computer), talking me through all sorts of steps, such as pinging. When two attempts to ping failed, she had me unplug and restart everything, again. At several of the more frustrating steps, she actually said, "I know you'd like to speak to a customer service rep, but we've come this far, and I'm confident we can resolve this together." So now I had a computer reading my mind. Great. "So, Miss Smartypants, can you tell me what I'm thinking now?! Yes, that's right, I did just think those bad words!! What are you going to do about it?! You don't have a body, so ha!" Sorry. It's out of my system now.

After all this mind-numbing frustrating nonsense, the computer woman and I determined my wireless router is fried. I don't like it when electronics fry. It makes my life inconvenient. In this case, I'm now wired to the modem. No more wireless freedom. I have to sit in one particular chair, in one specific area of one room, just to get online. I don't like it. At all. But I shall persevere. And I shall order a new wireless router, so I can once more roam the wilds of my house, laptop in hand. My daughter's room is particularly wild, by the way. I should probably disconnect and go address the issue. And I know I promised a new vacuum story; it's coming. It was going to be posted already, but then my router, you know, fried, so that put a big monkey wrench in things. And I needed to share my trauma with you. So I'll save the vacuum story for tomorrow.

P.S. Spring has ended in Wyo. It's a full-on winter white-out. It's cold and windy. And snowy. And I have to go out into all that yuck to get WyoBaby from school. I don't relish the idea. So, feel sorry for me, please. No? Well fine. I'll just suck it up. Happy Thursday!

Love,
WyoMomma

Don't Abandon Ship! (Pleeeeaasssseee!!!)

I'd rather not speak of my unspeakable absence from bloggers' land. Really, I do apologize to my four faithful readers for my absolute lack of words lately. But I promise, I shall return, full-force, tomorrow. Or tonight. One of the two. And I shall bring a story of a vacuum. That's right, there's an update in the vacuum saga. So please, women and children, stay on the ship for just a few more hours.

Thank you for putting up with my erraticism (it's a word, I'm pretty sure)!
Love,
WyoMomma

I Know Things About Stuff

Turns out that's not a highly marketable quality. I retain all kinds of useless, albeit interesting, facts. For example: The length of time coffee beans are roasted is indirectly related to the amount of caffeine in the beans. Which means, the Espresso roast has the least amount of caffeine. It's the concentration of the shot of Espresso which delivers that extra zing. Also, coffee has more flavor notes than wine. Terribly fascinating, right?

Knowing these types of things serves you well in only a limited number of situations. I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit. I can hammer out a crossword puzzle in short order. And I can handily defeat my family in a rousing game of Scene It for the xbox! That's right. I know my movies. And I'm not entirely sure what that says about the way I spend my time. But here's the rub: I know things about movies I've never seen, and I have no idea why. Somehow, my little brain randomly gathers information from unknown sources, and then files it away in a little area known as Useless Trivia.

But, since my brain wastes so much time in this fact-gathering exercise, it has no energy left to remember important things, such as, why I walked into a room. Or that I started a load of laundry an hour ago, but forgot to turn on the washing machine. My brain runs around in a million different directions, and only hits the mark one time out of a thousand. It is so incredibly frustrating. So much so, that I recently spoke to my doctor about the possibility that it might be a chemical thing. Turns out, I'm just like most other Wimmies. I have been genetically programmed to multitask. Except I wasn't there the day the manuals on multitasking were handed out. My genes may know what the heck they're doing, but I have no clue! I'm guessing I'm not the only Wimmy who gets incredibly frustrated when she gets in bed at night, and begins to remember all the things she forgot during the day.

You might be asking yourself, "Does she have a point? And if so, is she ever going to get to it?" Yes and yes. My point is this, in an effort to make sense of all my frustrations and triumphs, confusion and success, I've decided to write a book. It will be as much a journey of self-understanding as a tribute to all Wimmies who struggle to stay ahead of the game. And you, my faithful and beloved readers, might end up as a sounding board for portions of this book. So, fair warning, I'm going to throw some thoughts at you every once in awhile. Because, as much as I know about stuff, I'm not too clear on life.

Just Call Me Grace (or Taylor)!

People, the last few days have been a bit rough. After spending a day trying to get back in the school groove after Spring Break, I was ready to jump right in to my day-to-day routine, when blam!!! sore throat. Now, most of the time sore throats go away on their own, but this one did not. I went to bed Tuesday night with a tiny little tickle in my throat, and woke up with a monster sore throat, headache, congestion and no voice. This threw a huge monkey wrench into my day, as I was slated to help in the classroom that morning. But when you have no voice, working with 3rd graders becomes rather impossible. And, I didn't want to share my germs with all those kiddos, so I stayed home. On the couch. All day. Watching The Office. I would like to take a moment to say that Netflix is quite possibly one of the single best entities in existence. And now, I have the streaming disc for the Wii, so I can watch the Instant Play selections on my t.v., rather than my computer. How great is that?! And, in their infinite wisdom, the folks in charge of Instant View included all episodes of The Office in that list. So I watched The Office. All day. In between naps. And that made things better. The Office is simply my favorite show. J doesn't appreciate the beauty of The Office, which breaks my heart a little, and if I'd known this before we married, I would have written a clause into our marriage contract, guaranteeing I could watch as much of The Office as I wanted, and he would have to keep his heavy sighing to himself. He just doesn't 'get' Michael Scott. I question J's sense of humor. But I love him regardless.

As luck would have it, I got sick on a day J was working in town, so he picked up WyoBaby from school for me. So, I didn't have to get off the couch and leave Pam and Jim and Dwight and Kevin and Meredith and Stanley and Michael and all my Office friends. Thank goodness for J. But my bliss was short-lived. Here's how sick days work when you're a Wimmy: (That's my new word. Wife + Mommy = Wimmy.) You get one, maybe two, sick days a year. That's it. If you dare to take more than one at any given point in time, your house will become a disaster area. Dirty dishes and laundry will pile up everywhere. Dinner will not get cooked. WyoBaby will not get help with her homework and reading. J will give you a look which says, "You're still sick?! I think you've been sick long enough, don't you?" And besides, this Wimmy is the coach of WyoBaby's soccer team, so I couldn't take another sick day. But, my friend, who has her angelic moments, offered to grab WyoBaby from school and slow down her Suburban long enough for her to leap out at our house. This gave me a bit more time to nap before practice. I was not 100%, but I was committed to giving those girls the best coaching possible. And things were going pretty well, as well as they can when you have 13 girls ambling all over the field, doing cartwheels, playing with each others' hair, talking baby talk, and only giving you half of their attention, at best.

I was doing my level best to explain Playing Your Position, and was helping the girls run a drill, which involved running down the field, passing the ball back and forth. After trying to yell my instructions, which were falling on deaf ears because I basically had no voice, I decided to join in the drill to demonstrate. For thirty seconds, it went well; I made two passes on the run, and was lining up for another one, when my world suddenly turned upside down. Do you recall my past issues with gravity? Yeah, they haven't gone away. Instead of kicking the ball, I stepped on it, which promptly took me from upright to sideways. In my mind, I could hear my slow-mo voice, saying "Nooooo" as I fell fell fell. You know that voice right? When something bad is about to happen in a movie, the character's voice slows waaaay down and gets deeper. That's what was happening in my mind. That's right, I hit the decks. Again. This time didn't hurt as much as the ice rink fall. In my mind, the track scene from Valentine's Day was playing. Did you see that movie? Oh, loved it! Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner are a high school couple, and she's being interviewed by a local reporter while he's running hurdles. He's looking pretty cool, and then blam!! he hits one of the hurdles and takes a tremendous dive. She yells, "That's okay, Baby! Just brush it off!! You're still hot!!!" It was like that, only no one was telling me I was still hot. One of the mothers came close to wetting herself, she was laughing so hard. WyoBaby was at the other end of the field, hollering at the top of her lungs, "Mom!! MOM!!! ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!" As I brushed the dirt off my knees and scooped my bruised ego off the grass, I mumbled, "Yeah, I'm okay." She didn't hear me, so she kept yelling, "MOM! MOM!! ARE YOU OKAY!!!" "YES BABY!!! I'M FIIIINE!! GET BACK TO THE DRILL!!!" The mother in the stands called out, "I'm sorry, but you had to see it from the outside, it was HILARIOUS!" Oh I just bet it was. So, not only was I trying to recover from my cold, I was now nursing a bruised knee and trying to get 13 girls to take me seriously. Good luck with that. They tend to tune you out after you've taken a fantastic dive. But I taught them how to do a throw-in properly, how to do a chest trap, and how to pass. Mission accomplished. After going home, popping some Advil, and crawling back onto my beloved couch, things got better. Until my friend, the angelic one, texted me, "Are you still awake? I will say several Baptist versions of Hail Mary for my blog." When I asked her if she'd written something naughty, which would explain the need for a Baptist Hail Mary, she sweetly replied, "No, I don't write naughty things. I just write about people I KNOW." And just like that, her little halo slipped. I fired up the ol' laptop, pulled up her blog, and read about her day. She'd had a rough day. But you know how she made it better? By ending it with, "At least I didn't trip over a soccer ball!!" People, that is what's known as adding insult to injury. Yes, I love her. But her halo is perched a bit precariously. The only way she redeemed herself was by adding, "Just brush it off, Baby. You're still hot!!" And that's why I love her. She's my own Taylor Swift.

Stay Tuned...

I know, I know, I know. I've neglected my blog. For a long time. And for that, I do apologize. But, stay tuned folks. I promise, tomorrow's post will be worth it. You'll get to laugh, big-belly-laugh, at Yours Truly. And you'll feel much better about yourself. I would write about my Moment of Glory tonight, but my bones don't knit as quickly as they once did. So, I'm hauling my sore butt to bed, so that I can rest, and be refreshed for tomorrow's post. And so I can walk upright. Okay. Stay tuned.

Love,
WyoMomma

My Lips Are Sealed

Can I just say that goldfish are dirty and disgusting? Okay, thank you. That being said, my child has four. Well, a Shubunkin (translation carp) and three small black Moors (translation goldfish cousins). And I have no idea how they can turn a tank full of clean water into a yucky murky mess in an hour, but they do. With gusto. It's almost as if they take pride in how quickly they can dirty their living space. Not unlike some small children. We had a plecostomus (algae eater), but he went belly up. Literally. I failed to realize this at first, because the stream coming from the filter had a sort of animatronic effect on him, so he looked alive. He was yuppin' and yowsin' (my brother J's phrase for jumping around with gusto, or being animated) in such a way that he appeared to be swimming under his own power. After watching him slam himself into the pirate ship a few dozen times, it occurred to me he might not be captain of his ship after all. So I scooped him. And flushed him. If there's one thing I know, it's how to dispose of aquatic animal carcasses. Sometimes they get tossed in the garbage, or down the disposal (ewww, right?) or flushed. It just depends on my mood, really. I refuse to feed them to the cats, because I'm fairly certain I don't want to be the Eve to their Adam. You know, giving them a taste of the forbidden fruit? That would just create problems for everyone. Mostly me. And I'm all about minimizing my list of problems.

In my previous attempts to keep the tank water somewhat clean, I have resorted to sucking the yuckiness out with a turkey baster. We don't have a need for a turkey baster in our kitchen, because J fries our turkeys. J can sense if I'm even thinking about roasting a turkey, and he'll appear out of nowhere and say, "Wouldn't rather have me fry that instead?" And yes I would. Because that's some good eating right there. Have you tried it? You should. But make sure you THAW the turkey before dropping it in a vat of hot oil. So there's my cooking tip for the day. No need to thank me...

Anywho, the baster worked fine, but it was a slow and messy process. I finally gave in and decided to procure a gravel vacuum. I had two choices. Pay $30 for some fancy you-don't-have-to-work-to-get-it-to-siphon number, or pay $8 for a length of plastic tubing and a plastic cylinder you connect to the tubing. Sold. As I read the instructions on how to get the siphon action started, WyoBaby said, "You know, my little friend has one of those, and he just sucks on it a few times, and that gets it going." To which I replied, "Well, your little friend is a boy, and as such, may not have many qualms about placing his lips in a situation where there's the slightest chance they might come into contact with yucky fish water. If Mommy did that, I'd have to scrub my lips with Clorox, and we both know that's not safe. Plus, if Daddy found out my lips had touched nasty fish water, he might not want to smooch me anymore, and that would be a bummer, because I kinda like smooching Daddy." And she replied, "Gross Mom, that's more disgusting than dirty fish water!!! Eww. Eww. Eww!" She has a flair for the dramatic. I'm pretty sure she learned it from her father.

Armed with a mop bucket and the little gravel vacuum, I set out to clean the dirty buggers' tank this morning. According to the directions on the package, I was supposed to pump the vacuum up and down in the water a few times to get the siphon going. I guess I wasn't pumping the right way, because it took more than a few times to get it working, but when it did? It worked like a charm! It was sucking that gravel clean like nobody's business. But I wasn't really paying attention to how quickly it was sucking out the water. That puppy was movin'! I'm pretty sure the fish were saying "Whoa. Whoa! WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA!!!!! WHERE THE HECK IS THE WATER GOING?! HEY YOU, YEAH YOU, THE ONE WITH THE DEATH TUBE!! SLOW DOWN LADY!!" Have you ever read The Water Hole by Graeme Base? It takes about 15 pages for the animals' watering hole to shrink down to nothing. I did that in about 30 seconds. Excellent book, by the way; the illustrations are phenomenal. He's also the author of Animalia, another beautiful book. You should check 'em out if you have kiddos. Fortunately for me (yeah, the fish too), I stopped just before my mop bucket overflowed. I added clean water and changed the filter (turns out I might have put it in backward the first time), and we were good to go. Best eight bucks I've spent in a long time. And I didn't even have to touch yucky fish water to my lips. Lucky for J, eh?

But, Where Is the Awesomeness?

Sometimes, it's best to remember things the way they were. Just leave them in the past; don't revisit them, because I'm here to tell you, if you do, you might find yourself holding a big bag of disappointment. And life as you know it will never be the same. It could rattle you to your very foundation. Trust me on this, people.

Saturday night, after my beloved Ax Man and I made beautiful tree killing music, we sat down with WyoBaby to find a decent movie on t.v. Can you imagine my excitement when, while scrolling through the guide, I came upon The Karate Kid?! Oh how I loved this movie. I had a hugenormous crush on Ralph 'Babyface' Macchio. I can't tell you the number of times my friend Tiff and I watched this movie, sighing and drooling and cheering when he did his Crane Technique to beat Johnny and Elisabeth Shue came running onto the mat to hug and smooch him! And when The Karate Kid II came out? Oh my word we were excited!! Not one, but TWO Ralph 'Babyface' Macchio movies!! The bliss! The ecstasy!

Naturally, when I discovered it was just about to start, I hollered, "OH MY GOSH WYOBABY!! THE KARATE KID! YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS MOVIE, I LOVED IT!!" So the three of us watched this awesome movie. Only, it wasn't awesome. Not even a little bit. It was cheesy. It was hokey, but not in a good way. The acting, oh the acting...yikes. And the soundtrack? Bad 80s muzak versions of I-don't-know-what-music. And of course, what cheesy 80s movie would be complete without the musical montage? But WyoBaby loved it! She was entranced! And J loved it when Mr. Miyagi made Daniel wax the cars, because then he walked around the house using his best Mr. Miyagi voice, saying, "Wax on. Wax off. Wax on. Wax off." Oh but he was enjoying that. And when we reached the end, and Johnny and his bad guy cronies were beating up on Daniel-san something fierce, and it looked like curtains for The Karate Kid? I couldn't wait for that Crane Technique kick which would finish Johnny. The anticipation was killing me! And then all of a sudden, the movie was over! Nothing. Just Daniel hopping up from the mat after a wicked kick to his already-injured-leg, and getting into his Crane position and boom! It was over in five seconds! I turned to J and said, "Hunh. I remember the whole final scene with the big Crane Technique kick as being waaay more suspenseful and exciting." To which J replied, (in a brief break from his Mr. Miyagi impersonations) "Yeah, so did I. Hunh. Go figure."

Life as I knew it was forever changed. The Karate Kid wasn't awesome. It wasn't even all that good. But WyoBaby loved it so much, she wanted to stay up to watch the second one. I was so bummed, I had to lie down, and try to make sense of this new topsy-turvy parallel universe in which I found myself. I mean, in what world is The Karate Kid not awesome?

So you see? It's best to leave certain things in the past. Trust me. If you don't, you'll find yourself asking, "But, where is the awesomeness?" And no one will be able to answer you, because it turns out the awesomeness was all in your head.

The Wisdom of Children

One of the great things about being a parent is hearing all the little words and phrases kids use. And one of the things which really cracks me up is when WyoBaby says things just a little differently than most adults. For example, we don't use nail polish in our house. If you're going to give yourself a mani-pedi, you use pay nailish. And for the longest time, we caught calepittars and put them in jars, hoping they would disappear into cocoons and emerge as flutterbys. We're big fans of mazagines, because there are so many interesting articles to read. Sadly, WyoBaby is outgrowing many of these words. But the other day we were in Walmart (good grief, I spend some time in that dang place!) when WyoBaby turned to me and asked, "Mom, can you feel my glads? I think I'm getting a cold, and I'm pretty sure my glads are swollen." Of course I replied by feeling her little neck glands and saying, "Nope, your glads feel okay to me, Baby." And then two days later, she said it again, "Mom, I'm pretty sure I'm getting a cold because my glads feel really swollen, can you check?" Still no swollen glads.

Last week I was getting on her case because she'd left a trail of crumbs from the kitchen all the way to the living room. As I was telling her to go get the vacuum, she said, "Jeez, I guess I'm like Handsome Gretel, huh?" At first, I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat herself. "I left a little trail of crumbs through the house, just like those two kids, Handsome Gretel, did. Remember?" Ah yes. Handsome Gretel. Who could forget?

But the one which really got me this weekend didn't come from WyoBaby. It was uttered by the little neighbor girl. It wasn't that she mispronounced a word; rather, it was the way she said what she did. I was on the computer, and the kids were playing the Wii. I could tell because the one not playing was yelling instructions at the two who were. Don't you just hate that? It's like the person who looks over your shoulder when you're playing Solitaire, "Move the red queen onto the black king! Oh, black 7 onto red 8!!" Like you didn't see those moves...drives me crazy. Anyway, the three kids were making a lot of noise, and yelling at each other and the game, when all of a sudden, the little neighbor girl announced, "That's it. I'm using The Force." Yes, they were playing the Lego Star Wars game, so I know to what she was referring, but the tone she used got me thinking. I want to be able to say, in a matter-of-fact way, "That's it. I'm using The Force," and be able to back it up.

Do you have any idea how invaluable a tool that would be to me, both as a wife and mother? The possibilities are endless. "Baby, I have asked you TEN TIMES to clean up your room, but it's still a disaster. You leave me no choice; I'm going to have to use The Force. You will clean your room." To which she would respond, "I will clean my room." Oh, and when I want J to take me on a date? "You want to take me to dinner and a movie." And I would act completely surprised when he said, "I want to take you to dinner and a movie."

I'm on to something, people. Any ideas how I can make this work? I haven't seen Yoda in ages, so I'm not sure of his current address. If any mothers out there have enough midichlorians in their system to use The Force, I could really use some pointers. If you need to Google midichlorians, you can't help me. Sorry.

The Ax Man Takes a Wife

Do you recall my previous post, in which J fancied himself a big bad ax man? Well, J kicked it up a notch, and by notch I mean, well, a few thousand notches. We went from this:



To this:



And the best part, aside from watching J run a chainsaw, was this:



Except, I was the one in the cab, and J was in the basket. And I was hoisting him to dizzying heights. And he had a chainsaw in the basket next to him, and the chainsaw was on the entire time.

I will admit, when I was first informed I would be running the man-lift, I was less-than-thrilled. I had better things to do. Like laundry. And dishes. And scrubbing toilets. But then I hopped up in that cab. Well, not really hopped so much as scrambled and huffed and puffed and crawled. Once I was in that seat, my whole world changed. I had power at my command. And that power was Heavy Equipment. I became an equipment operator, and just like that, the Ax Man had found his partner.

For two hours, I gleefully pushed and puller levers, moving J up and down as he whittled away at our dying Cottonwood. I have never loved him more. Huge limbs fell, making fantastic cracking and thudding noises. There was only one moment when a street sign may or may not have been hit by a falling log, and the sign may or may not have been bent, and J may or may not have hung on it like a monkey, yanking this way and that to straighten the sign.

At first, the prospect of hoisting my beloved high into the air scared the bejeepers out of me, but we settled into a rhythm, and sailed smoothly through the process. Well, there was that one instance when I started to move the basket down, and J jumped, grabbed on for dear life, and turned eyeballs the size of saucers on me. But it wasn't my fault. He gave me the hand signal for down, and that's what I did! Apparently in the 30 seconds between his signal and when I pushed the lever, he forgot! But he recovered right away, and we carried on. And this is the result:







It's a beautiful thing. And so is this, but you're just going to have to take my word for it, because my phone camera doesn't zoom. So you really can't appreciate it, but I do. Yes I do.



The Ax Man's work here is not done. And it won't be until the entire tree is gone. Despite our neighbor telling him that 'it looks perfect now, and maybe it'll even come back to life'. J has put the tree on his list, and no amount of input is going to remove it. That's just fine with me, because that means I might get to operate the man lift again.
And this year, I'm asking Santa for a new camera...

Happy Monday!
Love,
Mrs. Ax Man

Macho Macho Man

Do you know what that is?! That, my good people, is why life insurance agents LAUGH AT ME! Laugh. Knee-slapping belly-laughs. Because that is J. My partner in life. And J is up a tree without a net or harness. Wielding a pair of pruners.

Let me give you a little glimpse at the inner workings of J's brain. When J sees something which needs to be done, he does it. Right now. And if J starts his Saturday morning sipping a cup o' Joe and watching Ax Men on the History Channel, J decides pruning trees is just the thing to which he should give his undivided attention. Right now. So he consumed three of the cinnamon rolls my friend Tammy & I spent five hours making last night (more on that in a minute), said, "Quite tasty my Dear!!" and hopped in the shower. He emerged outfitted in his Serious Manly Work Clothes, a.k.a his Manly Logging Clothes, and armed with a handsaw, a pair of pruners (seen above) and a ladder. As he sauntered out the back door, I called out, "Don't you need my supervision?!" and he hollered, "No, Woman!! Get back in the house!! Do you see any of those Ax Men hauling their wives along when they go to work?! No! No, you don't!! You have windows, most of which operate fairly well, and you can call to me through one of those if you MUST give me advice!!"

Since the dawning of time, a battle has raged in our household. A battle of wills. On the one (read: right) side, a woman who has knowledge in the Design and Maintenance of Landscapes. And on the other side? A six-foot tall tower of Testosterone. And in the words of another J, a.k.a. Hubs, "My Estro is no match for his Testo!" Never mind that mixed in with my Estrogen is an education in The Proper Way and Time to Prune a Tree; one simply cannot reason with Testosterone. And, within his arsenal lies a secret weapon, His Mother (whom I love dearly!!). This has put many a chink in my armor. Not that the man needs any support in his efforts to ignore the Nagging Banshee Known As His Wife, but his mother (whom I love dearly!!!) has told him she has pruned trees at all times of the year, and they have been none the worse for wear. And when a boy brings his Momma (whom I love dearly!!!!) to the fight, I'm gonna lose. Nevertheless! Might does not beat Right. And as you'll recall, I'm RIGHT. You don't have to take my word for it. Just think of it this way: If you're in the midst of a growth spurt (read: Spring & Summer), how much growing do you think you'd do if someone suddenly lopped off your arm? Stumped? (Forgive the pun, I couldn't help myself. Won't happen again. I swear.) I'm gonna say, not a lot. You'd forget all about growing and focus your energy on healing. Next question: If you were heading to the North Pole for an extended vacation (read: Fall), and as you boarded the plane, someone suddenly lopped off your leg, how well do you think you'd fare in the frozen tundra? Stumped? (Sorry. No more. Promise.) I'll tell ya how you'd fare, not well! Not well at all! Because now, instead of using your flight time to load up on calories to keep you warm, you'd spend it bandaging your severed limb! So you're left with Winter. That is when you prune; you lop all you want (up to one-third of the tree). Before bud-break. Then and only then.

So, the Ax Man did choose to act impulsively at the right time of year. I take no issue with his timing. The thing which gives me pause is the picture at the beginning of this post. After being told to stay in the kitchen and share my 'advice' with the cats, if I felt the need to speak, I set about cleaning up the breakfast mess. (No, I haven't forgotten about the five hours of baking story, that's another post.) Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a slight movement, which I figured was one of the millions of squirrels who frequent our trees. Imagine my surprise when I realized it was J! Shimmying up that tree like a monkey, pruning shears in hand. Sweet Jesus, give me strength! I resisted the urge to scream at him, fearing any sudden loud noise might startle him, causing him to lose his grip on the tree and drop the shears, which he would then land on squarely. I did the next best thing. I snapped pics with my cell phone, and sent one to Tammy. Her husband replied, "Is J on drugs?!" And I fired back, "Not unless you consider life a drug. He's high on life. And, he watched Ax Men this morning, so now he fancies himself a big bad logger!" I'm told that upon reading my response, he burst out laughing, and needed to take five to compose himself.

Yes, J is high on life. And when J encounters an obstacle, he and his inner child have a conversation which goes something like this, "Hm. I need to get that branch way up there, but can't reach it with this puny ladder!" Inner child: "Dude! Use the puny ladder to reach the tree and then just CLIMB THE TREE TO GET WHERE YOU WANT!!" J: "Why that's a splendid idea! I like the way you think, young man!" And that is how J ended up in the tree. After trimming to his satisfaction, he came in search of Man Fuel, a.k.a. pizza, and informed me that he was going to find some equipment, namely a man-lift and small end dump. I asked him if he was done assaulting the first tree and he muttered, "Yeah. After a while I stared hearing a song in my head, 'Face on the ground, face on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your face on the ground!' and decided it was about time to get out of the tree." On his way out the door, in search of more Ax Man equipment he hollered, "You might want to read section 6, sub-paragraph xii of our Marriage Agreement!" To summarize, "The Husband, hereafter referred to as Morpheus, may, at any time, call upon the Wife, hereafter referred to as Woman, to operate a man-lift, thereby aiding Morpheus in his tree-pruning activities. Woman may not, at any time, offer suggestions, advice or warnings to Morpheus, and shall remain silent during the operation of the man-lift." (Just a little nod to all my fellow Dwight Schrute fans.)

Happy Saturday Folks, I'm off to operate a man-lift.
Love,
Woman

Happy Anniversary to Me!! (And Happy St. Paddy's Day to Everyone Else...)

Today J and I celebrate a crazy little thing called love. (Quick! Who sang it?!) Our journey together has had its share of bumps and potholes, but lots of smooth sailing too. And yes, I realize I've just combined two metaphors, driving and sailing. And yes, I'm perfectly fine with that. They're both means of transportation, and the general idea is that we've continued on this journey. So there.



I particularly like this picture because it so eloquently illustrates how one enters into a marriage; with eyes closed. And it's just so flattering to both of us! (I have no idea why we look the way we do in this pic; I know we weren't praying at the time.) Honestly, who knows what the future holds? As it turns out, the 'better' part is far better than you dreamed, and the 'worse' part can be far worse than you expected. You see each other at your best and worst. You (hopefully) learn what makes the other person tick, and what makes 'em crazy. And sometimes you use that knowledge for evil, instead of good. Oh admit it! But through it all, you stick to it. You don't give up. And you're rewarded mightily for it.

One of the things I enjoy most about J is I have learned (for the most part) how his mind works. Yesterday morning was an excellent example. He woke me, bright and early, both to kiss me goodbye and ask if he could have my phone, because his Blackberry was dying. The moment he made that request, I was WIDE awake. My phone is one of my appendages. Where I go, my phone goes. My phone and I are BFFs. Heaven help the mister who comes between me and my phone. Yesterday, that mister was J, and he was headed for a world of pain. In a panic I asked, "TO KEEP??!?! FOR THE WHOLE DAY?!??!" Sweaty palms. Heart palpitations. Shortness of breath. I had all the symptoms of a full-blown panic attack. He talked me down off my ledge by assuring me he just wanted to borrow it to make one phone call, and then he would return it. Pinky promise. Cross his heart, hope to die, stick a needle in his eye. Luckily for him, he was true to his word.

I asked him where the charger for his Blackberry was, and he declared, "I have no idea; it's been missing for two weeks!" How he has maintained a battery charge for that long is beyond me, because the man is permanently attached to that phone. If he isn't talking on it, he's emailing someone. (And he teases me about my texting...sheesh!) I would like him to enable texting on his phone so I could get in touch with him during the day, but so far he's resistant to the idea. Perhaps he doesn't want to be that accessible to me.

Anyway, I asked him if he'd left it in the motel room he stayed in about two weeks ago, and he was adamant that he had not, because it was missing before his trip. I chose to not take him at his word on the matter, and went in search of his overnight bag. Lo and behold, inside that bag I found not only his charger, but also the receipt for his room! (It's sort of important that we have those receipts, for expense report purposes!) I strolled into the kitchen with a smug grin on my face and said, "Um, is this what you've been looking for?" You can imagine the look of surprise on his face when he asked, "Where'd ya find it?!" and I told him it was right where I thought it would be. To summarize, I had been awake a total of five minutes, and in my sleepy stupor, I found his charger in under thirty seconds. All because I've studied the man's movements, taken notes and created a psychological profile of him. That's one of my favorite parts of marriage; the comfort of knowing a person so intimately.

So here's to marriage, and here's to J: Thank you for making my life crazy and hectic and happy and blissful. Thank you for deciding I was the one you wanted to share this life with. You made an excellent choice my man, and I love you!



(Much better!)

There Will Be Blood...

How's about a trip into my childhood? I wish I could say the names have been changed to protect the innocent, but I'm not sure who that would be. Well, besides me, of course.

I am the oldest of three siblings, and the only girl. That my friends, is a combination fraught with peril. But in this particular tale, I was sort of on the fringe of the action. This one involved my brothers, a metal toy rifle and a sleepless father.

My parents owned a restaurant, and my dad worked nights, so he was never in bed before 3 a.m. This left the morning routine to my mom. As a whole, my brothers and I were a rambunctious trio, and mornings were hectic, to say the least. My mom would wake at an insanely early hour in order to get herself ready before waking the beasts. Once awakened, my brothers would spend a good amount of time goofing around, fighting, playing with their toys, tattling and generally doing anything but getting ready for school. Most mornings at least one of us would go flying through our parents' bedroom door to holler at Mom, "J won't get out of the bathroom so I can brush my teeth!!" or "C is telling us what to do! Please tell her she's not our boss!!" or "N is making that face at me again! You know the one?! The one he makes just to tick me off?!?!" All the while, my father was in bed, trying to sleep. Invariably, he would end up pulling the pillow off his head and yelling, "GET OUT!!! GO GET READY FOR SCHOOL AND STAY OUT OF OUR ROOM!!!" So we would. For about ten minutes. Kids have notoriously bad short-term memories.

As most sibling issues do, this one eventually came to a head, and ended with a Sit-Down Talk About Staying Out of Dad's Room in the Morning. He informed us that we were not, under any circumstances, to enter their room in the morning. Period. And I quote, "I don't want ANYONE coming in this room in the morning unless someone is bleeding!! Do you understand me?!?!?" Three little heads nodded meekly, and the discussion ended. But here's the thing about kids. Setting parameters is the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. It's a throwing down of the guantlet, if you will. Nine times out of ten, your kids are gonna pick up that gauntlet and slap you in the face with it. My father had made a request, and by golly, he was gonna get it.

The next morning was a Saturday. My brothers were playing on the living room floor and I was somewhere else in the house. Translation, no witnesses to the crime. Dad was sleeping, and I'm not quite sure where Mom was. All of a sudden, the calm and peaceful morning was shattered by a scream and the sound of thundering feet headed to my parents' room. Their bedroom door was flung open and my brother J was screaming, "HE HIT ME!!! I'M BLEEDING!! OH, HE HIT ME!!!" Listen, Dad had laid the ground rules, and my brother had stuck to them. Involuntarily, of course, but still. He had a gash above his eyebrow, and the blood was streaming down his face at a pretty good clip.

Not having witnessed how he came to be injured, I can only relay the facts as they've been given to me over the years. Here is the time line of the crime, as best as I can tell: My brothers were playing in the living room with their toy guns. Things were going fine, until my little brother N asked our brother J to cock the metal rifle. Never dreaming he was about to become an accomplice in his own assault, J quickly cocked the rifle and handed it back to N, who proceeded to crack J across the face with the barrel of the rifle. I am unclear as to why N chose to 'rifle'-whip his brother, but he did. And the result was a trip to the emergency room to get one of his many rounds of stitches.

Let this be a lesson to any parents who would be tempted to add the phrase "unless there's blood" to their rules. Be careful what you ask for. You just might get it.

A Monday Mommy Moment

I am a stacker of papers. My aversion to filing is a mystery to me, but I can tell you, I'd rather do a Mt. Everest of laundry than deal with a stack of papers. Every couple of weeks, I'm forced to face my nemesis, and try to make sense of all the notes and statements and schoolwork and junk mail covering my dining room table.

Yesterday was one of those days, mostly because my brother and sister-in-law were coming over for dinner, and I like to maintain the illusion of a clean and orderly house. As I waded through a particularly large stack, I came upon an assignment by daughter had brought home. Her teacher had asked the class to write a letter describing the best gift they'd received. As I started to read, I was so overcome with emotion and love, the tears ran in great rivers down my cheeks. Here's why:
(You might need a tissue if you're as sentimental as I am.)

February 22, 2010

Dear Mom,

What is the best gift you got? Mr. Blanky is the best gift I ever received.

He is the best gift I ever received for these reasons. He was the first blanky I was wrapped in and he was comfy. I cannot believe you were thinking about me when I was not even born, that was such a nice thing to do. He is also my friend, because I had no friends. See, I've had him since I was not even born and he is the best gift ever.

Mr. Blanky made me feel safe. When I was wrapped in him he made me feel safe because he was, and still is, comfy. When you wrapped me in him it made me feel happy. Mr. Blanky made me feel like you were holding me when I was sad. As you can see, Mr. Blanky made me feel safe, and he is the best give I received.

Mr. Blanky has been my friend for nine years. I did not have any friends when I was one year old. Also, when I was alone, I would play with him. Mr. Blanky always made me feel happy. See, he is my friend and will always be. Also, he is the best gift ever.

As you can see, Mr. Blanky is my favorite gift I received.

Your daughter,
Grace

If that doesn't yank on your heartstrings, I don't know what will. Folks, I read this and balled like a baby. Sobbed. Snorted and sobbed and blubbered. At one point, J came in the kitchen to make sure I was okay, only to find his wife red-eyed, with snot and tears running down her face. He quickly walked away, no doubt driven by the fear that he was the cause of my current state and that he would have to try to reason with a woman who was clearly not in her right mind. And through it all, I had the biggest smile on my face. My heart was so full of love, I was convinced it was going to burst. I will try to put into words all I was feeling with this letter of response:


March 15, 2010

Dear Grace,

Thank you for sharing your story. I'm so touched that you love Mr. Blanky as much as you do. When I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to find a blanket you would love forever. As soon as I saw Mr. Blanky, I knew he was the one. He has been a good friend to you; from the time you were a tiny tot, you and Mr. Blanky have been inseparable. I remember many nights when you refused to go to sleep until you had him snuggled in your arms.

You asked me about the best gift I received. That's easy. You. Hands down, you are the best gift ever. I loved you the very moment I learned you were going to be a part of my life. As I carried you for those nine months, my love for you grew each day. And when you were born, I knew I could never put into words the depth of my love.

Through the years, you've laughed and cried, learned so much, tried and failed, and tried again. When you giggled and smiled, my heart swelled with joy. When you cried, my heart broke. Through every experience, you've shown me how truly blessed I am to have you for a daughter.

My love for you knows no end, and as long as I live, you will always have me. When you're sad, I will wrap you in my arms, and when you're glad, I will share your joy with you. In all my years, I will never receive a more precious gift. Thank you for being you, and for making my life better than I ever dreamed it could be.

Love,
Mom

There are days when I'm certain my parenting rights should be rescinded, because I feel like a big fat failure. But then I read a letter Grace has written, or I see a smile cross her face, or I look at her as she sleeps and know I'm doing alright. No parent is perfect. Even in ideal circumstances, things don't always work the way we plan. But here's the thing, it's okay. What's important is that we keep trying. That every day, we commit to this responsibility we've chosen. The way I see it, God gives us the gifts of children, but it's up to us to choose the responsibility of raising them in a way which pleases Him. Plenty of people are given that most precious of gifts, but turn their backs on everything it includes. I have no idea how they make that decision. All I know is that as a mother, I have good days and bad. The worry over the bad days is part of what makes me a good mother. And all the things in this world could never take the place of the best gift I received.

That's the Best Ride of the Night Ladies and Gentlemen!

So, as mentioned previously, I left the house yesterday morning, after doing my Daily Dozen with Denise Austen, and getting dressed to fabulous. Can I just say, as an aside, that I'm a big Denise fan? And mostly it's because Denise is the polar opposite of Jillian Michaels. That woman scares the heck out of me and makes me angry all in the same second. Seriously. I do not want someone screaming "STEP IT UP MAGGOT!!!! GET THOSE LEGS UP! UP! UP! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!! WHAT???!! YOU'RE STOPPING BECAUSE YOU'VE DISLOCATED YOUR SPLEEN??!!! THERE'S NO STOPPING IN JILLIAN'S WORLD!!!" I like Denise because she's nice to me; she cheers for me and says, "That's right, you can do one more leg lift!! There you go, good job!!" Yep, I prefer people to be nice to me when I'm sweating and crying. But I digress.

I was headed on down the road to see The Woman Who Makes Me Look Fabulous, because my roots were long overdue for a touch-up, and my hair was getting so long the only style I could pull off without bursting into tears in the morning was a ponytail. If I have a bad hair morning, it sets the tone for the whole day, and the tone is not melodic. This gal is a magician. But the only time my hair looks perfect is when she styles it for me. And apparently, our budget does not include paying her to drive an hour round-trip to make me looks gawjus every morning. J can be so unreasonable...

I have to drive on the interstate to go see the Magician, which isn't a big deal. Here in Wyo, we think nothing of driving two hours to go shopping. One way. Clearly I'm not going to let a little hour of drive time keep me from the Magician. Night before last, we got a little skiff of snow, and by the time I hit the interstate, it had melted. I'm sure you're all familiar with what that means to a windshield. Tires create a fine mud spray which coats every inch of your vehicle. This is not a problem, unless you've say, forgotten to refill your washer fluid reservoir. Not that I would ever forget to do so, but hypothetically, it could reduce a gal's visibility. And hypothetically, if you turn on your wiper blades to clear the fine mud spray, and you don't have any washer fluid, you just sort of smear the mud all over the windshield. Turns out smeared mud is far more difficult to see through than finely sprayed mud. Hypothetically.

Anyway, I arrived in one piece, she worked her magic, and two hours later, I headed home to pick up WyoBaby from school. After swinging by the house to grab her swimsuit and towel for her lesson, I decided we had time to run through the automatic car wash. Because hypothetically, my windshield was smeared with mud, and I cannot stand a dirty windshield. And I like my car much better when it's shiny. Now, there is an Urban Legend in our town which tells of an automatic car wash so diabolical, it's been known to toss a Suburban around like a rag doll while a small child hollers from the back of the vehicle, "Let me drive Mom!!! I can get us out of here, I know I can!! JUST LET ME DO IT!!" But folks, that is just a myth, and the car wash doesn't scare me. At least, it never used to...

When I was a young lass, I played girls' softball. One summer, I got into a wicked batting slump, and every time I walked up to the plate, I was so mentally psyched out, my slump continued to decline. Almost to the point where I would refuse an at-bat. My dad explained that it happens to every batter, at some point, and that eventually, it would just take care of itself. Turns out he was right, and one day, just when I had become convinced I would never connect with another softball, I knocked it clean out of the park. (Well, not really. It's just a figure of speech.) The point of this story is to lay the foundation for what has been a rapid decline in my ability to maneuver through the automatic car wash, or as I've come to think of it, The Car Killer.

In this particular automatic car wash, there is an elevated tire track on the driver's side on which you must park your tire. If you don't do this properly, the car wash will not operate. If you don't do this properly, your car will jolt and bounce around, and the drivers waiting in line behind you will see this and giggle to themselves, "Geez, talk about your crappy drivers! Must be a woman..." In the beginning, I had no problem parking my little car right where it should be. But one day, I missed by an inch or two, and my car got high centered. When I gunned it, the car leapt off the track and lurched forward. So the next time, I was nervous about hitting the mark. I missed. And yesterday? Oh that was the worst yet. I watched the car in front of me navigate the labyrinth with the slightest of ease and thought, "No sweat. I can do this!" Boy was I wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. On my first approach I missed and had to back up for another try. I missed again, and the car bounced around for thirty seconds. On the third try, I sorta made it. Well enough for the car wash to start. The real trouble began when I had to pull forward to the dryers. Turns out I hadn't parked as well as I thought. When I tried to pull forward, the car lurched and died. After starting the car, I gave it another shot. Lurch. And die. By now I was sweating profusely and my knuckles had turned white. Started again. Lurch. And die. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!!! Started again, backed up, and tried again. The tires were spinning and squealing. The car started bouncing around so violently I felt like a bronc rider in a pinball machine perched on an unbalanced washing machine. Meanwhile, WyoBaby is reading her Star Wars book and calling out, "Mom, what's this little thing on Obi-Wan's toolbelt?!" People, I can answer 1.3% of all Star Wars related questions under the best of circumstances. When my car is being eaten by The Car Killer, and a steady stream of expletives is piling up on my tongue, the words Star Wars don't even compute. All I could think was, "Any minute now, I'm going to hear the sound of metal shearing as the axle extricates itself from the front end of this car, and the dryers have started running, so I'm losing precious seconds of dry time!!" I have no idea how I did it, but I finally got the car out of the track. As I ran the car through the dryers, I noticed my hands were shaking. Violently. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I needed a good belt of whiskey to still the shakes. After the dryers stopped, I tentatively turned into the alley, and I swear the car was pulling to the right. A lot. I'm pretty sure my little eight second ride did irreversible damage to the front-end alignment.

I'm in the biggest car wash slump of my life. Way bigger than my softball batting slump. And I don't see this one fixing itself any time soon. Guess I'll be driving all the way across town to use the other automatic car wash. The one WITHOUT the tire track. Remember, just because it's an Urban Legend doesn't mean it isn't true...And those bull riders have nothin' on me!

Live and Let Live?

This is J:



He's a handsome devil, (at least I think so) which is part of the reason I have such a huge crush on him.

And this is J's (not by his choice) cat:



Perhaps you remember Marley? She's the one who has acquired a taste for polyurethane. (I have the scars to prove it.) While not handsome, she is pretty dang cute, and most days I'm fond of her. However, she is most fond of J. Her favorite part of the day is after dinner, when J settles in with a blanket and book. This is her cue to get thisclose to him. She crawls all over his arms and his book and gets right up in his face. This causes J to have mixed feelings about Marley, but I know that deep down, he really does love her. And deep down, I really do love J, which is why I allowed Marley to live this morning. Well that, and the fact that she scurried under the bed before I could outfit her in a finger necklace. I do not advocate animal abuse in any form, but I was seriously tempted this morning, when I heard a fantastic crash come from the direction of the office (my project, remember?). I had a pretty darn good idea what the source was, so I ran in there to see the little African frog cube on the dresser, on its side, slowly draining. The poor frogs were scrambling for escape, as you would if your house was suddenly and violently thrown on its side. Fortunately, the lid on the cube seals tightly, and there's a little tiny hole in it for feeding purposes, so there was not a huge amount of water lost. Still, there was a steady stream running down the wood dresser, which has been in my family for a long, long time.

My first instinct was to string Marley up by her whiskers, but as I've already mentioned, she's quick. And I'm not about to hurt an animal. That didn't stop me from hollering at the top of my lungs, "THAT'S RIGHT MARLEY!!! YOU BETTER STAY UNDER THAT BED!!! SO HELP ME, IF YOU COME OUT OF THERE, YOU'RE GONNA GET IT!!" I'm pretty sure she understood the implication of my words, if not the meaning. I set about righting the cube, but chose not to rearrange the gravel in the tank at that moment. I figured the little guys had suffered enough and were in desperate need of some quiet time. I then did my best to dry the dresser and mop up all the water which had pooled on the hardwood floor. I had to sequester the traumatized amphibians in a dark closet (not fair, I know), because I couldn't trust J's cat to leave them alone, and I had to leave the house. I apologized to them profusely, promising to check on them when I got home. As of this posting, they're still alive. In fact, I'm fairly certain they're relishing the safety of the closet. On the other hand, Marley is still on MY LIST, and we're not speaking. And when J gets home tonight, he's going to hear all about how much I don't love his cat. But that's what marriage is: loving your partner and accepting their flaws. Even if their flaws happen to be a five pound bag of punk who goes by the name Marley. Oh the sacrifices I make...