Stop It. Please.

I started writing a post for today, and it was going to be full of humor about our first world problems, but then I saw this on Facebook.

And my heart felt that it was time to write about something that is so important, to all of us, that it couldn't wait. I'm tired of seeing people spread hate and intolerance over social media, when it would be just as easy to spread love and compassion. And enlightenment.

When you first read the above caption, you might think, 'Sounds about right. There will always be mean people in the world, and we can't always stop them from being mean.' But then this goes so wrong. The message is that A: we shouldn't do anything to stop bullies, because hey, they're always going to be around, so what are ya gonna do? and B: wearing pink is a sign of weakness, something to be mocked for, and makes you a target as being someone who is overly-sensitive (at the very least) or gay (which is certainly something that makes you fair game - sarcasm), as well as a sign of a victim. Since when did victimization have a color? The responses I read were full of the attitude that violence is the best, and only, answer. One particular gem: "Turn the other cheek...with a fist." Nice. Violence is always the answer, right?

Maybe my eternally optimistic life-view sets me up for shock whenever I see things like this. I walk around in my little fantasy world where things are better than they used to be, so how can this kind of thinking still persist? Part of that is right - things are better than they used to be. But part of that is wrong, because clearly, this kind of thinking does still exist. One doesn't need to look on social media for too long before you see hate messages. People are so quick to throw out words like 'gay', 'pussy', 'girly', 'loser', 'idiot', 'wimp', 'retard', etc., as a way to demean someone else, or even to joke around with their friends. We're all guilty of it. I am. But that doesn't make it okay. Ever. Have you seen this ad?
 https://www.blogger.com/blog-this.g?n=Always+%23LikeAGirl&source=youtube&b=%3Ciframe+width%3D%22480%22+height%3D%22270%22+src%3D%22//www.youtube.com/embed/XjJQBjWYDTs%22+frameborder%3D%220%22+allowfullscreen%3E%3C/iframe%3E&eurl=https://i.ytimg.com/vi/XjJQBjWYDTs/maxresdefault.jpg
See? We all do it. Even the women this particular stereotype hurts. What is it about being feminine that is so damn shameful or weak? Check out this doozy:

http://www.funnyvinevideos.com/vines/2205/Throwing-a-Ball-Masculine-Guys-vs-Feminine-Guys

Can I just tell you how much I resent that kind of garbage? Who is this benefiting? Anyone? Anyone?Bueller? Bueller?
The strongest people I know are women. I defy you to show me one shred of evidence that females are somehow lesser beings. And yet we send messages to our young people that feminine = less. We need to wake up and knock it off.

Also? What do pink shirts have to do with any of this? Let's talk about pink. Pink connotes the feminine. Look at baby showers. Or baby cakes. What are they usually? Pink or blue. Pink means girl. Can you get around this? Not easily. This color is loaded with connotations - good and bad. Thanks to the Susan J. Komen foundation, pink has come to symbolize our commitment to fighting breast cancer. That's a very good thing. What isn't a good thing is the slogan 'tough enough to wear pink'. This slogan perpetuates the stereotype that wearing pink is something men would usually (and rightfully?) be mocked for. But when you say you're tough enough to wear pink, that means you're totally tough and secure in your manhood, so bullies can't make fun of you. Especially since you're wearing it for such a worthy cause. But without that disclaimer, is it okay for men to wear pink? Mmmmmmaybe not...But by whose standards? Who gives a crap what color your clothing is? Seriously.

Here's something I learned during my second round of college. In Nazi Germany, Hitler forced homosexuals to wear an inverted pink triangle. Why pink? I'm not sure, but I'm picking up on a theme here, are you? Now, thankfully, the symbol has been turned up, and is used as a sign of pride or a place of safety for those who are being bullied or persecuted. I like the idea that a symbol once used for persecution is now used for safety. That's a huge step in the right direction. And yet we have so far to go...

While we're on the subject of Hitler, I'd like to put all of this in oversimplified terms, as it relates to the card above. Hitler was a bully. A huge, terrible, evil bully. And you know what it took to stop him? An act of Congress. Literally. Our legislative body had to declare war in order to stop this bully. But we shouldn't pass anti-bullying laws? Now that just doesn't make sense. You know what else doesn't make sense? That puffin. Why did they put this caption over an image of a bird? I don't get it, but then, I don't get the whole card. It sends some mixed messages. "We're never going to get rid of bullying, and I'm going to project a message of intolerance." Gee, do you suppose it's messages like this that make people think we're not going to get rid of bullying?

I could go on and on about gender stereotypes, but I'll save that for another post. Bottom line: this crap has to stop. We have got to stop perpetuating messages of hate, even if they're couched in what seem like good ideas. Should our kids know how to stand up for themselves? Absolutely. Should we throw our hands in the air, shrug our shoulders and say there's nothing we can do to prevent bullying so why bother? Absolutely not. Should the pink shirts even be a part of this discussion? Um, no. Nope, nope, nope. It doesn't make sense. Should we tell people who are bullied to suck it up and stop being victims, because nobody cares, and 'Hey, ya can't stop bullying!'? Gimme a break. Think people, think. It would be laughable, if it weren't so awful.

Some of you might read this post and think, "Whoa, militant feminist alert!" You would be wrong. I don't like labels. I really don't like the feminist label. I'm a people-ist (Is that a word? Probably not, but I'm going with it.). I believe in the basic humanity of each and every person on this planet. I believe we all have flaws, just like we all have basic needs. One of the most basic is to be treated with kindness. With respect for our humanity - all that makes us alike and vastly different. I believe that if God loves and forgives every soul, we can at least try to be nicer to each other. We can stop putting each other in black and white boxes. The world is a crazy, colorful place. That's okay. We need to stop fighting it.

One of my favorite quotes, attributed to Edmund Burke: "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Can we stop all the bullies? Nope. It sucks, and it's depressing, but it's not fatal. Because we can do something. A small thing, in our own lives. We can stop. Stop using words that hurt. Stop making the jokes that aren't funny. And when we see things like the card above, we can speak out against them. What we can't do, shouldn't do, mustn't do, is remain silent.

Life Is Grand

I owe much of who I am - good and otherwise - to my dad. He was a force to be reckoned with, whether you were discussing politics, playing Trivial Pursuit, fighting for a later curfew, or cooking in his restaurant. Everything about Dad was grand. His laugh, his mustache, his hard line when he was convinced he was right, his commitment to his kids, his sense of humor (he always thought he was hilarious), his love of food and books, and his personal demons. He could be a wonderful man when he set his mind to it. One of the things he did well was write a column for the local weekly newspaper. The column was entitled "Ain't Life Grand", and it was full of musings and observations from his corner of life. I present the following as evidence. This entry, "Huntin' Trouble" was published October 6, 1994.

'Once again it's that time of year - hunting season. There's a hint of winter in the air, Aspen leaves are golden, and any woman worthy of that name is finalizing negotiations for a new major appliance. "Of course I don't mind you using all your vacation time to go hunting, Honey. And that new Maytag will sure get your Carhartts clean."

Every year the boys, Fish Boy and Snake, and I do a little hunting. They scan the horizon for whitetail, elk, goose. I scan my brain for excuses: "It's too dark; it's too far away; how was I supposed to know that was a spike?" I love to hunt, I'm just not too keen on all the work after you yank the trigger. (Let me save you a stamp. To all who think hunting is a cruel, heartless, male ego thing, let me reply in my most heartfelt and humble manner - "Sez you.")

One particular hunt stands out in my mind. The boys and I were just about to call it a day. Then a lone deer came bouncing along the pasture below us. I was plumb out of lame excuses by this time, so I took a bead and down it went. Now we needed the truck.

The pick-up was at the house, not far away. We strolled on up. Fish Boy was complaining of cold hands and asked his sister GiGi if he could borrow some of her gloves. To my surprise, she graciously agreed on the condition that no innards be permitted to soil her property. I assured her that the gloves would return in pristine condition. They almost did. Who could have guessed?

I wheeled our 4-wheel drive 400 big block '79 Ford blue beast fence buster pick-up into position by the carcass. Leaping to the ground, I was handed the knife as neatly as any brain surgeon ever received a scalpel. We proceeded - Fish asking for parts indentificiation while I tried to avoid thinking about my lunch wending its way upwards. Done at last! Back into the beast, wheel into position for loading. As I jumped out this time, my olfactory lobes signalled my brain that something was amiss in the odor department. My right rear wheelwas smack dab in the middle of the gut pile.

With a maximum amount of grunting and groaning we hoisted the cadaver into the twelve foot high truck bed. I advised my accomplice, "Wait here a minute and I'll turn the truck around." I hopped in and gave 'er the gas. To my surprise the wheels began to spin furiously. Then I realized that pancreas and spleen make for poor traction. Oh well, no big deal. As Fish Boy climbed into the cab, the smell became more pungent. Apparently, he had been standing directly behind the truck during the acceleration process. Well, Goodyear Mongo Lug Black Beauty Churners effectively transform deer innards into airborne flotsam and gutsom. It's the first law of Cuisinart Dynamics.

The brain is a marvelous device. Fish Boy's brain saw this awful barrage flying toward him. This sent a signal to his hands, "Whoa, wake up down there. I don't want that stuff anywhere near me. Action, Jackson." The hands did their duty. They maneuvered the gloves into place, covering the face. As a result, the gloves acquired a new color, texture, and aroma. None of which the manufacturer would tout in a national ad campaign.

I knew the deer was not the only dead meat in the truck. I had assured GiGi that her gloves were safe. There are a few things which every man fears. Trashin' fashion is one of them. Being sensible, I immediately tried to think back to my college course, Creative Excuses 101. I was stumped. May as well face the music. As we stumbled into the house in our crimson stained hunting clothes, GiGi spied the now soiled gloves. Her eyebrows snapped to attention. She had us dead to rights. I began babbling apologies. Fish Boy even begged her forgiveness. She turned to me and said, "He loves hunting so much, and those are old gloves anyway, don't worry about it." Huh? Well, we'd been huntin' trouble and failed to bag our game once again.'

Some might argue that I chose this entry because it casts me in such a flattering light. You'd be right. I also chose it because it's a story near and dear to my heart. Dad had a gift for words, and each time I read this story I'm transported back to our warm kitchen, where Mom and I were working on dinner while The Boys did their hunting thing. It was a good day. We had a lot of good days.

As time went on, the good days started coming less frequently. By the time I was in high school, Dad had sunken into a deep depression. Life with Dad wasn't easy. I went off to college, while Mom and The Boys worked to make the best of life. Eventually, Dad came out of his depression, but it left a mark on us all. Good days started coming back, though not the way they were before. We all struggled, as most families do, but life went on.

When I became pregnant with WyoGirl, Dad sort of came to life again. He would refer to Fetus WyoGirl as Louis, after Louis DePalma, from Taxi, because they were roughly the same size. He decided that rather than being called Grandpa or some variation thereof, he wanted to be called Yuda. Short for Yudaman. And with Dad, it fit.

As WyoGirl grew, she and her Yuda became thick as thieves. They did everything together. Best Buds. Theirs was a bond I envied, having never had a relationship with any of my grandparents. But it did my heart good to see how happy they made each other. Good days were back.

But, life is transient, and good days couldn't last forever. As WyoGirl grew, Dad's war against his inner demons grew. Things changed - good days started to disappear again. Distances expanded, along with hurts. But somewhere in there, along with all the mess and hurt, was my dad. The man who had raised me with such love and devotion. With a hard line and high expectations. With an appreciation for wit and humor, cooking and the written word. Over time, however, it became harder to find him.

We lost Dad in November 2011. When I got the call from my brother, I crumbled. I had been expecting this day for a long time, but was nowhere near prepared to accept it. I screamed, and I cried, and I cursed God and Dad. I sat down on my kitchen floor and cried with sobs that wracked my entire body. And then, we all set to work figuring out how to say goodbye to a man who had been larger than life, in all our lives.

Dad never wanted a sad funeral. He wanted everyone in attendance to wear nose glasses. Oh, the family nose glasses pictures I could show you...We did the best we could, but loss and saying a final goodbye are difficult, painful things to do, and there's bound to be some sadness that gets through. One of the songs we chose for Dad's service was Vince Gill's Go Rest High on That Mountain. It seemed to fit Dad so well.

I know your life
On earth was troubled
And only you could know the pain
You weren't afraid to face the devil
You were no stranger to the rain

[Chorus:]
Go rest high on that mountain
Son, you work on earth is done
Go to heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and Son

Oh, how we cried the day you left us
We gathered round your grave to grieve
I wish I could see the angels faces
When they hear your sweet voice sing

Saturday evening, driving home from Billings with J and WyoGirl, I heard this song on the radio. As soon as I heard they lyrics, I began to weep. It wasn't a deep, sobbing cry, rather a soft, quiet weep. Tears filled my eyes and streamed down my cheeks, while a lump settled in my throat. I looked out the window, and beheld an amazing sunset. Later that night, when I took The Hound out to do her thang, I was struck with the sense that life was humming, all around and inside me. The air was filled with evening flower fragrance. Beauty surrounded me. Just inside, two of the people I love most on this Earth sat, healthy, safe, and peaceful. The evening felt grand. Grand in scope, and grand with a realization of blessings, of struggles fought and won, of grace, love, and forgiveness. In that moment, I realized just how right Dad had been. Life ain't always good, but it sure as hell is grand.

You Keep Me In Stitches

"Hey Mom I need sticks." That text, sent at 8:10 last night, is the reason I'm a shoe-in as an extra on The Walking Dead. I'm exhausted. Thanks to autocorrect, I didn't grasp the meaning of that text right away. Where autocorrect put 'sticks', she had typed 'stitches'. As in, 'I've cut myself badly, and am going to need medical attention in the immediate future.'

Around 7:00 last night, WyoGirl headed out the door with two of her best buds and the mother of one said bud. They were headed to the park to a free concert. A park that has a creek running through it. On a day where the mercury sat at 94 forever. At 7:45, I sat down to eat my dinner, leaving my cell phone on its charger in the kitchen. I, who am never more than two feet from my phone, had left it clear across the house. So, when I returned to the kitchen at 8:20, imagine my surprise when I read the above text, saw the two missed calls and voicemail from WyoGirl. She only tries to contact me like this in an emergency or when she wants Starbucks. Also an emergency, according to her.

The voicemail was actually left by her lifelong friend, N, and went something like this:
"Hey Cody, um, it's N, uh, don't be mad or anything, but uh, WyoGirl kinda fell on a rock, and um, she needs to get like two, three stitches, but it's not, she's not in pain, she's not crying, but um, she's doing fine, she's just, I just wanted to tell you so you're not worried, I just wanted to tell ya, just don't be mad, please, love ya, bye." Alrighty then, my child needs stitches. But she's fine, she's not crying. Super. I'll go ahead and not freak out right now.

That part about WyoGirl not crying didn't surprise me at all. Our girl is one tough nut. When she was a baby, and the doctor gave her shots, she would look at him with an expression that said, "If you do that again, I will cut you." End of discussion. When, as a toddler in footy pjs, she slid down an entire flight of hardwood stairs, smacking her head when she landed at my feet, she got up, looked up the stairs as if to say, "What the hell was that?" and just walked away. During a soccer game a few years back, that girl took a soccer ball to the face at least three times. Each time, she would look over to the sidelines and yell, "I'm fine! Don't you dare take me out!"And when she crashed on the last hurdle during a neck-and-neck heat, she popped back up and finished third. She'd been closing in on first, and still finished third, mere milliseconds behind first, after leaving all her knee flesh on the track. High pain threshold. Seriously.

I finally managed to get her on her cell phone, and she said, "Oh, I'm at the...'wait, where am I? The ER? Okay.' I'm at the ER Mom, and so can you come up here? 'Pressure, right here? Okay.' Anyway, can you come up here, because I need stitches?" She was so flippin' calm, it kinda freaked me out. I went to find J, who was in the shower. "Kiddo is at the ER, she needs stitches, I don't know what happened, so let's go." After I repeated myself three times, he said, "Okay, I'm almost done here, give me a sec." A sec? Um, no. Baby hurt. Momma go now. You drive.

As we pulled up to the ER doors, I tried to climb out of the car while he was still doing 10 mph. Stupid new safety locks in cars. You can't get out until the driver shifts into P. Grrr. Let me out, let me out!! I got inside, and was immediately taken to WyoBaby. Y'all, when I saw her, I was blown away. There she was, chatting away with the doctor and doctor-in-training, calm as could be, while blood ran down her leg. This was not my child. I am not calm. I tend to freak out a lot. Blood doesn't bother me, but adrenaline? Oh I'm a mess when that stuff kicks in. Not she. But as soon as I was within reach, she latched onto my hand and didn't let go for the next hour. Remember that high pain threshold? They had to give her three different rounds of Lidocaine to numb her enough to clean out the cut. And that bad boy was deep.

J, who is a former Corpsman of the Marines, treated this ER visit like a bit of a field trip. He was asking questions about which kind of Lidocaine they were using, he wanted to get up close and personal with the wound, and when the doctor asked if we wanted to keep the suturing tools, he was all over it. All the man needs is access to some fresh sutures, and we'll never have another ER bill. And that is one of the things I appreciate about J. He is calm. Whenever there's an injury or crisis, the man is calm. He balances out my crazy nicely.

After they poked and prodded, and determined she hadn't done major damage to any tendons or important parts, they gave her two quick stitches and we were outta there. The sweet mother and the two girls WyoGirl had been at the park with had hung around the entire time, just to make sure she was okay. When they released WyoGirl, they sent her home in the hospital gown, because her clothes were soaked with creek water. Picture it - six of us, one in a lovely hospital gown, standing outside the ER chatting at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

The mom told me she had the whole thing on video, if I wanted to see it. She said the girls had been jumping into the creek, and the first two had gone in just fine. Grace went in, and, according to the mom's account, when she came up she had a glazed look in her eyes. Grace looked down at her knee, saw the blood a-flowin' and said, "I think I need stitches." Just like that. No tears, no freak-out, no screaming or fainting, just a calm medical assessment. Hence the calm, matter-of-fact text she sent me. You know, just hanging out with friends, and oh, hey, I need to go to the ER. That's just how she rolls.

We pulled up to the house and WyoBaby said, "Um, someone's gonna have to carry me, because I'm not wearing any shoes." Enter J. He scooped her up and carried her to the house. For my money, there's nothing sexier than watching your husband carry your sweet baby girl, recently the recipient of stitches, up the stairs and into your house. Our hero. I got her settled into bed, and was watching some t.v., waiting for my adrenaline to wear off, when I got the following text from WyoGirl: "Hey mom, can we go to McDonald's and get some fries, because I'm hungry and I'm really craving some fries. If you're still awake." You know time it was? 11:21 p.m. True, the girl had just been through a traumatic night, but that still didn't warrant an 11:30 run to McD's for fries. I told her I would fix her a snack from our kitchen, and then she needed to get some rest! As I walked out of her room, she was calling out, "It's a mere flesh wound! Come back and fight me!" Quoting Monty Python in the midst of it all. I love her so much.

By midnight, I was under the covers, exhausted. By 12:01, I was out. At 4:00 this morning, I was up. I was up because WyoGirl was standing over me, puke bucket in hand, yelling, "I feel like I'm going to puke and then pass out!" Puke is a motivating word. It inspires action. I leapt from the bed while yelling, "Here, lie down, breathe slowly, drink this water! J, bring me a washcloth!" I don't think I was even conscious at that point, but I was up. We got her settled into bed, J went back to sleep on the couch, and I was up. Why not? It's 4:15 in the morning, time to start this day! I sipped my coffee while J and WyoGirl slept and I thought about how blessed we are. Her injury was minor, her care at the ER was excellent, and she has friends who love her enough to hang out at the ER for an hour and a half, just to make sure she's okay. I have a husband who will carry his thirteen year old daughter at the drop of a hat, and who is level-headed and reasonable when I most need him to be. And I have coffee. I love coffee. I need more coffee. And sleep. I love sleep. I need more sleep.

I Am a Tool (modifier)

In my spare time, which I have so much of, I redo furniture. This is my latest completed project, WyoBaby's vanity. Only took me a year to finish it - record time!

On a side note, I feel that since WyoBaby is thirteen (and very good at it), I should probably drop the 'baby' title. How about WyoGirl? Yes, I like it. WyoGirl. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, furniture.

My latest project is a desk to match WyoGirl's vanity. I've only had it for a year as well, so just the fact that I'm starting to work on it puts me light years ahead of my established schedule. No wonder I'm tired.

So, the first step with these old pieces is to sand all the yucky grime and old stain off them. I like to use J's Milwaukee random orbit palm sander. I like to use J's power tools for all my projects because A: I can't afford my own and B: He knows how to fix them when I 'accidentally break them'. This sucker works like a charm. Well, almost. See, this is an older model, and its sanding pad works with adhesion. All the newer models work with hook and loop (read Velcro) to attach the sanding discs. The problem with the sticky stuff is that it loses its stickiness almost immediately after you start to sand because, ya know, dust. Dust is death to stickiness. Fortunately, they sell a handy dandy conversion disc you can stick to the not-so-sticky sanding pad to make it a hook and loop system. This works great for about thirty seconds, and then, well, read above. Dust. Dust is the enemy of stickiness, right?

I like Home Depot. That place carries just about everything I need to be dangerous. And that's right where I went to fetch my adapter disc and the multi-pack of sanding discs. I needed the multi-pack because the vanity needed some Bondo to fill in missing veneer, and that stuff, aside from stinking to high heaven, needs the 80 grit treatment. More on Bondo in another post...I paid for my weapons and left Home Depot feeling quite impressed with myself. I like the fact that I can do most of this stuff without J's help. Mostly because I enjoy the sense of self-sufficiency it gives me, but also because J tends to make me crazy with suggestions when he helps me. I love the man, but it is what it is. He's a problem solver, and he solves problems I don't even have. I know, it's in his DNA, and I appreciate it, just not when I'm being a furniture renovation goddess. Goddesses don't need no stinkin' suggestions.

Fast forward to our backyard, me in a respirator and safety glasses, with the iPhone (I hate my iPhone so much, by the way) and earbuds providing both musical motivation and ear protection, and sander in hand. I was ready to do battle. Little did I know the battle it would be. Away I went.

All was perfect for the first five minutes, until I noticed the Milwaukee was struggling. It was leaving strange marks in the wood and was definitely not sanding anything. Turns out, the adapter disc had been thrown clear. Where, I couldn't tell. I searched all over the backyard and eventually found it a good twenty feet away from where I'd been working. Oh well, reattach and back to work, goddess. The next two times it happened, the thing hit me in the chest. At a high rate of speed. Hello! I eventually got it to launch across the street and land in the neighbor's yard. We're talking World Record distances. There's got to be a category for this, right? The stickiness of the adapter disc had failed, shockingly enough. Who knew? So, every time I turned on the sander, that baby launched itself to points unknown. Clearly this wasn't going to work. What to do? Back to Home Depot! Muster the troops, aka WyoGirl. I wasn't going in without backup.

We walked into Home Depot like we knew what we were doing, because we did. I made a beeline for what I needed. And then my confidence balloon began a slow leak. They had replacement sanding pads, that you put directly on the sander, but none were the Milwaukee brand. Also? There are both 3- and 4-screw hole pads. Good God. Super. What a treat. Home Depot carries every other Milwaukee power tool, EXCEPT the random orbit sander. Of course. I couldn't use one of their sanders to determine which one I needed. And the sanders they do carry didn't help, because they were evenly divided between 3- and 4-hole setups. Which group of tortuous minds came up with this idea?! As WyoGirl and I stood there, trying to make sense of it all, inspiration struck. The internet! You can find everything on the internet! I had WyoGirl pull up images of Milwaukee sanders so I could decipher which kind we needed. We were scrolling through and comparing images to the choices we had on hand, when a helpful Home Depot Associate walked up and asked if we needed help.

I'm guessing he figured we had not a single clue what we were doing. I told him what we were doing, trying to decide which part we needed, but that we couldn't tell from the products in the store, because they don't carry said sander, and so now we were trying to search images to see if that might help us, and blah blah blah. He mumbled something about not having that sander in the store and he didn't know and blah blah blah and then just walked away. Walked away. No, 'sorry I can't help you', or 'I'll see if I can find out'. Nothing. I do believe my crazy ramblings scared that poor man and gave him pause regarding his choice of occupation.

Lacking sufficient evidence to make a definite choice, I decided to just take my chances. I bought the 4-hole setup. And I told WyoGirl, 'Watch. This is going to be the wrong one. But if I buy the other one, it'll be the wrong one. I can't win! And I refuse to buy both. I don't know why, but I do. We're outta here.'

When we pulled up to the house, I said to WyoGirl, 'You go check if this is the right part. I'm not even going to bother getting out or turning off the engine, because I'm 99.9% confident a return trip to Home Depot is in our immediate future.'

She came back to the car with the biggest grin on her face. A grin that told me we were headed back to the Depot. I told her to grab the sander, because we still had two products to choose from, and I'd be damned if I was making a THIRD TRIP to that place in one day.

Sander in hand, we compared the two candidates, and selected the one that looked like it was a match. Looked like. As I walked up to the customer service desk, sander, previous purchase, new part and four drawer pulls in hand, the delightful lady said, 'Oh, hardware return? (She thought I had an issue with the sander. We all know I did, but none one she was qualified to treat.) I'll have to get someone else over here to help you.'

At this point, I may have been a bit on edge. Just a bit. I declared, 'IT'SNOTAHARDWAREISSUE! IT'SASIMPLEEXCHANGEFORAREPLACEMENTPART! GETYOURTHUMBOFFTHATRADIOBUTTON! RIGHT! NOW!'

I'm reasonably confident this is not the first sander-wielding crazy lady she'd dealt with. Maybe not even the first one that day. She was careful not to make any sudden movements or really say much at all. Transaction finished, I stormed out of Home Desperate, WyoGirl in tow.

Eager to get the sanding show on the road, I approached the replacement with renewed energy. Imagine my excitement when I discovered that the new pad didn't fit. You want to know by how much it didn't fit? Less than a millimeter. A FRIGGIN' MILLIMETER. Good news for my sanity. The next hour was spent trying to modify the replacement pad by drilling new screw holes. With J's Milwaukee cordless drill. The drill and I are tight. I can change bits with the grace of a quick draw sharp shooter. Try saying that five times fast.

My efforts were peppered with colorful language and deep breaths, along with requests that WyoGirl kindly not cause the table I was using to wiggle. Here's a fun fact about orbital sanders: they orbit. Always. I couldn't find any mechanism to lock the sanding head in place, so I was trying to retrofit the new pad to the sanding head while it was moving. Fun fun fun. Why don't I just shoot myself in the foot and call it a day?

Two hours later, I had the new pad on the sander, and was ready to begin again. Things went well for the first two minutes. Then, the sander started making a funny sound. And sort of stopped sanding. It wouldn't spin right when I put it on the drawer front and turned it on, but as soon as I took it off the drawer, it would work like a charm. Fortunately for my sanity and WyoGirl's tender ears, a thunderstorm began, preventing me from attacking the sander situation further. I packed it all inside, put it away, and walked away. That was two days ago. It rained all that day and the next, but today, the sun is shining, and it's time to get back to work. Pray for me. And the Milwaukee tool family. And the poor hard working associates at Hell Depot.

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