Jun 29, 2005

He scares me

Scott, bless his heart, is an incredible man, but sometimes, his ideas scare me.


Today, we put the inflatable pool up for the girls. We pulled up in the driveway, and were discussing where to place it--being that there's no shade in Texas. We have a rather large patio awning in our backyard--it's very nice--so I suggested that we just leash the beast (Jim, the dog), and put the girls' pool back there. His idea?

Scott: "Man, I wish I had a tarp."
Me: "Huh?"
Scott: "Well, I was thinking, I could back in the truck, tie one side of the tarp to the tailbed and the other to the garage door and we could put the pool under that."
Me: *staring in stunned silence*
Scott: "What?"
Me: "Yeah, that's a GREAT idea. Can we be any more WHITE TRASH?"

Git yer spit cup and your cheery Skoal, Skeeter! Throw up that thar tarp, and put the young-ins in the pool. Let's shotgun a Coor's and eat us some squirrel. What? We're outta beer? Well, throw little Annabelle in the pickup and let's go to Walmart. Don't worry--just leave her in her diaper--she don't need no shoes.

Jun 28, 2005

Pic o' the day

They're either trying to beat the hell out of each other with Tinkerbell Barbie, or they're melting my heart into a big frickin puddle.

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If you don't look at that and just say, "Awwwwwwww....," then you are prime evil.

Added note: That picture was taken yesterday night (6/25). This evening, as I was posting this picture, I heard Clairey fussing. I went to the girls' room, and witnessed "Heart Melting Scenario #2": Claire was climbing into Jenna's bed. She got up there, snuggled against Jenna, and fell back asleep.

I did something SO RIGHT with those two.

Jun 27, 2005

The day of the spa

This past weekend, my insect-eating neighbor put a spa in his backyard. The spa is VERY HEAVY. So heavy, in fact, that neighbor (Chad) and Scott went door-to-door to enlist other large, strong men to assist them in moving said spa. Oh no. No other men were home in the entire neighborhood, except for Claire's godfather, who lives next door. We don't like to ask him for help, lest we end up awaking to a horse-head in our bed, but I digress.

So we have two ex-football players, a non-ex-football-player-but-he-played-the-clarinet-in-band-and-holy-shit-clarinets-get-heavy-after-a-while guy, and me. Lifting a big-ass, heavy spa into the backyard. See picture. (You'll notice that someone is missing. That's clarinet-guy--he was in great danger of getting his family jewels squished between the spa and the air-conditioning unit, so he's off to the right waiting for a safe time to return.)

Let's all look at this lovely picture, or DIAGRAM, if you will.

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Take in the physiques of the two, large, grown men. They both have a corner of the spa. The spa is tilted towards the strong, but albeit, much SMALLER woman--that would be me. Now think of force and gravity. Where is all the weight of the VERY FRICKIN' HEAVY spa? Would it be in the two little corners that the very strong men are holding? Or would it all be coming down on top of the little woman's head? See her struggling to keep her arms from snapping under the pressure? See her legs--straightened out, digging into the cement, while the weight of the spa grinds her into the ground? Yes. SEE THAT? I carried all the weight myself. Those weak bastards.

A few things that may not be clear from the artist's rendering of the event:
1. Both Chad and Scott have more meat on their bones than what is shown.
2. Neither Chad nor Scott have perfectly spherical heads.
3. Scott's mustache and goatee look much more mustachey and goatee-ish, and less like chocolate milk smear and dirty chin.
4. I do not have a hairy face--that's the BACK of my head.
5. See the yellow insulation in my hair? That was really there.

My arm hurts.

Dog's do it

The chicks love the pool. Because we have a huge, beastly dog in the backyard, we set up the girls' pool in the driveway. They don't care where the hell it is, as long as it's full of water and there are no flying ants in it. Because if a flying ant gets into the pool, it's ALL OVER. The pool has been contaminated with an ant of the flying variety, and therefore, the pool water is unswimmable. You know how it is.

Anyways, the girls are in the pool, and I'm sitting in the shade of the garage with my Diet Coke, sweating like a pig--that's what you do in Texas. It's so damn hot, you just sweat. So I'm drinking my Coke and sweating, and Jenna says, "I have to go potty." Of COURSE you do. You're in the pool, you're soaking wet, of COURSE you have to go potty. I tell her, "Okay, here's your towel. Dry off and go. DON'T RUN!" I turn around, and entertain Claire while Jenna's drying off.

A minute later, I realize that I didn't hear the door open. I look around--where's Jenna? She's in the front yard. Naked. Squatting. Peeing.

We're SUCH an entertaining family.

I don't know why, he swallowed a fly...I guess he'll die

My neighbor ate a fly. A LIVE fly. Off of a fork (which was good manners).

But it was coated in German chocolate cake.

Does that make it okay?


I warn all of you--if you ever meet a large, beasty man named "Chad," stay away. He may be the fly-swallowing guy. I mean, Lord, what is this going to lead to?! We all know how it goes: first it's a fly, then it goes to a spider, then a bird, and sweet Jesus, before you know it, he's trying to swallow a random cat. Then it goes on to the dog and the hog and the horse, and mixed in there somewhere is dying. YES. DYING.

You swallowed a FLY, Chad. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE. That's too bad. I really enjoy being your neighbor.

In retrospect, what a stupid-ass fly. I mean, come on. I actually scooped the fly off the cake with a fork, and it sat there. It had to be handicapped or something.

Chad, you ate a HANDICAPPED fly. Shit. Not only are you going to die, but you're going to HELL.

Jun 22, 2005

Innocence and crap

I love the innocence of my kids. Lucky for me, they still haven't figured out the fine art of lying.

Yesterday, I picked them up from the sitters, and as I entered the house, they both ran for me at break-neck speed because, you know, they hadn't seen me in approximately 8 hours. So, as I'm dealing with Jenna crawling up my left side, and Claire pulling off my shorts, trying to climb up my leg, I'm trying to carry on a humane conversation with the saint of all saints, Miss Dot. Not so easy. If I had 4 arms, it would be so convenient. However, I succumbed to the sharp little toenails digging paths up my legs, and just sat in a crumpled heap on the floor--being mauled by two little girls who both have SO MUCH to tell me. At some point, I'm finally able to pull myself off the floor and tell Jenna to go fetch her movie. She comes running back to me, dvd in hand.

"We didn't watch this today!" she chirps, gleefully.
"Why not?"
She strikes a pose and sings, "Because we were baaaaaddddd!!"

At this point, I'm not sure whether to clap for her lovely performance, or ask her what they did. I opted for the latter.

"I pushed people in the pool," insert more jubilant dancing, "and hit someone!" Arms up in the air, shaking her butt. "And Clairey pulled Skylar's hair and bit her!" Slide step, clap, ta da!

I'm used to this kind of "show," so I simply keep the unamused look on my face and turn to the wee chick: "Did you pull hair and bite?"
"Yeah!" shake, shake, shake.
"Clairey! We do NOT bite and pull hair! That is not nice!" I look at her sternly. She shuffle-steps with her chunky legs, looks at me, then gets a serious look and says, "Momeeeee, I wuff ewww" and blows me a kiss. Evil, evil child.

I get them corralled into the car, and am met with incapacitating screaming when I tell them that NO, they cannot listen to their music because they misbehaved at Miss Dot's today. Oh hell. The entire way home (the whole 4 miles), Clairey was screaming, and Jenna was yelling, "Please, please, please, please..." over and over again. I just turned up the radio and the "pleases" eventually meandered with the bass to produce a nice sound. I can only imagine what the cars next to us were thinking: 2 small children, screaming, and mom in the front seat, bopping away to music with the grin of insanity on her face. Although there was screaming, and more screaming, I was happy not to have to listen to the Shrek 2 cd again. For the thousandth time.

We make it home, and more fun begins. I hear Clairey scream from the playroom. When I go see what happened, Claire gives me the standard answer: "Jenna did it!" So I ask Jenna, "What did you do?" Standard answer: "I did nothing." I look at Jenna and say, "Jenna! I can't believe you bit Claire on the leg!" Jenna looks at me and says, "I didn't bite her! I pushed her because she had my purse!" SO easy. I launch into the "we do not push people" spiel, and Jenna interrupts me with, "But I DIDN'T! Pico did it!" Oh, Pico. That would be "Pico Rivera," her stuffed chihuahua. He's a horrible dog that needs to be gassed. He's always doing shit he's not supposed to be doing. I explain to Jenna that since she was HOLDING Pico at the time of the incident, she's responsible for Pico's actions, so they both must go sit in timeout and think about what they did.

Needless to say, Pico threw a tantrum and ended up going to bed early. The end.

This isn't funny

Do you know how difficult it is to work when you have 4 dead animals staring down at you? It's ridiculous. I'm in an 11x11 room, which houses 4 deer heads, a deer hide and an elk hide. How am I supposed to work in a slaughterhouse?! Thank God this is the only room I've allowed Scott to have. I would hate to have the entire house covered in carcasses....or is it carci? It's the friggin "Hall 'o Horns" in here.

Jun 20, 2005


Overheard on the baby monitor, Jenna to Claire: "Okay, go get the frying pan, and bring it right back to me..."

THIS is why we get no sleep.

Conversations with Clairey

There ARE conversations with the youngest chick, too. Jenna's not the only one that's yapping around here. Although Claire's not much of a conversationalist. For example:

Upon waking to me eating her little pigs this morning:
Me: "Good morning, princess!"
Clairey: "Brebfist? I wan doh-nus!"

See? Not much conversation.

Conversations with Jenna

Jenna, being absolutely silly at the dinner table:

Me: "Quit being such a weenie!"
Jenna: "I'm not weenie. I'm a girl. I don't have a weenie."
Me: "I'm just calling you a 'weenie' because you're being so silly."
Jenna: "Don't call me a 'weenie', you can call me 'Jenna'."

Monday already?

Why do weekend go by SO quickly, yet weekdays go on forever?

Although quick, we had a great weekend. Despite the temperamental outburst of evil from Jenna on Saturday. At the pool. The big, crowded, public pool. The outburst which involved her yelling things like, "I PROMISE I'll be a good girl!" and "No, mommy, NO!!!" and my favorite: "DON'T HURT ME!!!" CPS, anyone? All this, while I'm holding her and walking back into the gym--from the FAR side of the pool. The embarassment factor, on a scale of 1 to 10, was very close to 8. We ended up having to leave, because Big Evil would just NOT stop screaming. She screamed from the time we left the lounge chairs, all by the poolside, through the indoor-pool area, in the family changing room, throught the gym reception area, through the parking lot, and 5 miles home. Then she pretended to be asleep. EVIL comes in such small packages.

Scott and I called reinforcements (Gamma), and dropped off the girls over there, wherein they immediately became mesmerized by Gamma's charm and acted like complete angels. The best part of it all?? THEY SPENT THE NIGHT. The WHOLE night. Wait, I want to make sure you understand: We were completely childless from 5pm on Saturday, until noon on Sunday. OH, the things that took place in this house because the children weren't here to bother us!! There was SLEEP! Yes, sleep. Get your minds out of the gutter, people. We were TIRED (from all the other things we did because the kids weren't home to bother us...). But there was SLEEP! There was sleep until NINE-THIRTY a.m.! We had to go pick them up, eventually, but that's okay.

Jun 16, 2005

Party Planner

Father's Day is Sunday. I think it's important that the girls decide what to do to make his day special. So, I asked Jenna, "What do you want to do for daddy for Father's Day?"

Looks like we're making him a cake, having a Spider Man party, and buying him a bike.

Beats the hell out of a tie.

Jun 15, 2005

Sibling Stories

Me, my brother, and my sis--the stewbie children--have awful tempers. Mine comes out verbally, my brother's comes out physically, and my sister's--well, you just better hope you don't piss her off, because she starts planning her revenge immediately.

Being that we were 4 years apart, my sister and I hated each other until I went to college. Before that, there were very few times that she and I were "buddies." Usually, it was me and Shawn pitted against Shannon, or Shawn and Shannon pitted against me. One time, in particular, it was me and Shannon against Shawn. I don't recall what Shannon and I did, but he was royally pissed at us. So pissed, in fact, that me and Nan locked ourselves in the bathroom to escape his wrath. He threw a shoe at the bathroom door, and busted a hole in it.

All of a sudden, it got REAL quiet.

We fought quite a bit, but once something major happened, we were like the Three Musketeers--with red hair and without the swords and stuff. Immediately, we were all "friends" again, and had to figure out how the hell to fix the door before my parents got home from work. We had about 30 minutes.

We brainstormed, and threw out the solutions that we knew just wouldn't work: toothpaste? No. Elmer's glue? No. Stuff the hole with newspaper then patch it up with Bond-o? No. How 'bout replacing the door? YES!

In our garage, behind the bikes and roller skates and forgotten My Little Pony house, was an extra door. It had come off the pantry that my dad converted into a phone booth--more on that later. The three of us dug that door out, and somehow, managed to carry it up the stairs (split-level) without knocking a hole in the wall. We found dad's tools, got the broken door off the hinges, and put the new door in it's place. It took us about 20 minutes to shove the new door on there--I mean, hell, I was 12 at the oldest--but we did it. We went to close it, and I'll be damned, the door was too big by about 3 inches! It was wider than the standard door! We all just about crapped our pants.

We took off the too-big door, and stuffed it back into the garage. Then, sulked back upstairs, and stared at the holey door sitting against the wall, wondering if we had ample time to run away before the parents got home and killed us. Then, one of us had a bright idea (I like to think it was me): Let's switch the linen closet door with the holey bathroom door!

We got the linen closet door off the hinges, and perched it in the doorframe of the bathroom. Perfect! As we pounded in the last hinge on the bathroom door, we felt the familiar rumble of the garage door under our feet. Our parents were home, and the linen-closet door was still sitting in the hallway--with a big hole in it, might I add. We grabbed it, had to turn it over (the hinges were on the opposite side of this closet), and shoved it into place. Then my mom walked up the stairs.

She didn't even ask why the three of us were hanging out in the bathroom hallway. I mean, we were weird kids, so it probably didn't even cross her mind. She went into the bathroom, and my sister followed her. Shawn and I gave Nan the look that said, "Detain her as long as possible." While mom pee'd, and Shannon spilled the story of her day, Shawn and I pounded that door into place. Lucky for us, because of the reversed hinges, the hole was on the inside of the closet door. I ran to my room, got my most recent "Scholastic" poster (the one of the kitten hanging on the branch with the words, "Hang in there!") and taped it over the hole.

My mom walked out of the bathroom while we were taping up the poster.
"Why are you hanging a poster in the closet?"
"Um...I don't have anywhere to hang it in my room."

No questions. My parents didn't find out about the "bathroom door incident" until the house was sold--approximately 7 years later.

We are so sly.

MOS 0331--Letter from a Marine

Written by my brother, whom I adore, love, and is my biggest hero:

The crosshairs of my 50-caliber sniper rifle slowly move up and down the temple of my target 450 yards away. Before I wipe the sweat from my brow with an old, dirty sock I check my watch--the time is 11:17 am. I have been sitting on hill 517 Echo for 2 days now, hot as hell, starving, and my mind is starting to wander. I check my scope, then adjust two clicks to the right to make up for windage. I place my finger on the trigger. A conglomeration of thoughts floods my head and I began my internal struggle: can I really kill this man?
I began to compose a letter in my head, the letter that will tell my family about my heroism:
“Dear sis,
Ha! I got one of those fucking ‘rag heads’ today. A 500 yd shot--his head exploded like a watermelon. All of this sniper training has paid off and your little brother is finally making these assholes pay for 9-11. I miss you guys a lot. Maybe I can bring you home an ear necklace…hahahaha. Tell everyone I love them and I’m making them proud.
Love ya, Shawn”

As I peer through the scope it hits me, does this guy I’m about to kill have a family? What kind of letter will his sister get? Does he have a wife? Kids? I don’t want to kill a family man. I want to kill a terrorist. How in the hell can I tell from 450 yards away? The truth is, I can’t tell, and my struggle begins to deepen.

I sit there, methodically drawing figure-eights on my victim’s temple with my crosshairs. I can feel the rosary in my breast pocket pushing into my chest, and it immediately brings thoughts of religion into my dilemma. How can I, a church going Christian, kill a man? A man that I have no idea has committed a wrong? Will I burn in hell for all of eternity, or is this the exception to the rule? I pray fervently for my salvation, and click off the safety on my rifle.
I correct for windage with one more click. I begin to think of what I will tell people when I get home. Will I tell them that I killed people? How will I explain to my children the difference between myself and a murderer? I don’t know if I can live with this for the rest of my life. The thought of killing coming easier after the first time scares me, and my sniper-mind begins to wonder: If I can kill a stranger, how easy would it be to kill someone at home? How pained will my mind be? I don’t know if I can live with myself if I go through with this.
I try to push the thoughts from my head as I peer down on my target. Death, dead, not living—this is the end for this man. His life and mine will be greatly changed. I check my watch one more time—11:18. I wonder, "Will the next time be easier?" I pull the trigger.

Distance sucks


She's in Brooklyn, I'm in Houston. That's too far.

Just babbling

My mom came over last night. My mother is a nut, but good Lord, I love the woman. My chicks ADORE her. Seriously, there's no other way to explain what they feel for their "Gamma" than to say they ADORE her, in all caps. Now THAT'S ADORATION. You know it's serious when I bust out the caps.

The first thing I do when my mom shows up, is check out her chosen ensemble for the day. Mom could quite possibly win "Best Dressed" and "Worst Dressed" simultaneously. One day, she will show up wearing an impeccable 3-piece suit, the next day, a dress that my sister and I have dubbed "the big bird dress." Let's just say, it's yellow, and it's fuzzy. I can't go into further explanation, as it pains me to think about it.

So, I check out mom's ensemble: black pants, red sweater shell, vest with an apple motiff. Okay, I wouldn't be wearing the apple vest, considering that it's the same pattern that adorns a quilt I own, but since my Grama made it, I'll let it go. Let's call it the "sentimental-value apple vest." The thing that really cracked me up though, is that she slips off her black shoes, and she's wearing white, tube socks. WHITE TUBE SOCKS. I didn't even ask, because that's just her. The explanation would have been, "Well, you can't SEE them!" She cracks me up.

The kids swarm her, showing her all their stuff like it's brand new:

Jenna: "Gamma, close your eyes! NO PEEKING!"
Mom: "Okay!" --closing her eyes--
Jenna: --holding up the movie, 'Shrek' in front of her face (the first one. the one that came out, like, 5 years ago.)-- "Okay, LOOK!"
Mom: "OOOOOOOO!!!" --with looks of admiration/shock/surprise--

My mom: the actress. Like she hasn't seen that movie ten-thousand times since my children were born.

Next thing she knows, she has a Winnie-the-Pooh puppet on her hand. When my mom plays with the Pooh puppet, he sounds like Barry White. I often get nervous with the Pooh puppet around the chicks, because he's all: "Mmmmmmmm....I like honey...mmmm..hmmmm..." It's kinda creepy--the Barry-White Pooh. But the girls love it. Not that the "Disney" Pooh we all know and love would growl and attack a toddlers throat, but that's what the kids like, so my mom does it. The eruption of giggles that come of that is just awesome.

Jun 14, 2005

Conversations with Jenna

Last night at gymnastics, as I'm chatting with another mom, I hear parents laughing. I look up to see Jenna galloping towards me--making a mad break from the balance beam. She runs up to the half-wall separating the seating area from the gym, looks at me with those huge, beautiful, green eyes, and says:

"Mom! I almost puked!"

Then turns and runs back to the beams. Never a dull moment...

Jun 13, 2005

I have to wonder...

If it wasn't Michael Jackson on trial--just a random man--would he have been found guilty?

And the moral of the story is...

I just went to lunch with my neighbor. He's a big man, and I was afraid to say "no." Just kidding. Anyways, we ventured to this popular bar/grill-type restaurant close to our neighborhood. We ordered our salads and Diet Coke (I know...CRAZY) and took a seat. As we sat there, chatting about how my child enjoys beating the hell out of his child, I saw, from the corner of my eye, a girl that I attended college with. In fact, this girl was a sorority sister of mine. Not to ruin the collegiate dreams of many a man, but there were no late-night, pillow-fighting slumber parties. At least not at my school. Anyways, there she was: A WAITRESS. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. Yes, ME, at a loss for words. It DOES happen. The truth of the matter is, that she was known as a "girl that guys really liked"--if you know what I mean. She was very nice, but had this horrible reputation, which she did nothing to hide. She was always with different guys. I was shocked to see her, but from this sighting, I was able to compose a future lesson for the chicks:

Girl + being too nice to boys + college degree= A destiny with cruel punishment. Because you were naughty in college, you'll be severely punished and have to be a waitress with a college degree.

I'm so glad I listened to my mom and never slept around. I hate waitressing.

30-something slumber party

Sleepovers at 12 years old are fun. Sleepovers at 16 are hilarious. Sleepovers at 30 are the best ever.

On Saturday, my family was hanging out at our "home away from home" (my best friend's house), grilling up Scott's latest kill (redfish). As the evening came to a close, Angel and I decided that her husband should go home with my husband and kids, and we could just have a slumber party. They husbands weren't too thrilled with the idea. Okay, MY husband wasn't too thrilled with the idea, since he's way too familiar with how our children do not sleep. However, we somehow talked them into this, and around 830pm, her kids were asleep, mine were gone, and we were completely husbandless. So, we did what any crazy 30-something would do when left alone with sleeping kids and no husbands: WE WENT TO SLEEP. Because that's every mother's dream: to go to sleep before midnight.

I guess I should clear something up--we TRIED to go to sleep. As soon as we got under the covers, we realized something pretty darn quickly. No matter how old you are, as soon as you have a sleepover with your best friend, you turn into a 16-year old. We stayed up until midnight, laughing and giggling like little kids.

Angel fell asleep first. I wanted to put toothpaste in her bra and freeze it, but I refrained.

Man. That was fun.

Jun 9, 2005

It's 8:03 am. Do you know where your mind is?

Usually, for me, it would be in the gutter. However, this morning, due to lack of sleep, it's nowhere to be found. For some reason, my chicks only like ME to put them to bed. Daddy is okay to be in the room, but if mommy leaves, oh hell. Watch out. If I'm not home, daddy can put them to bed just fine--not one whimper out of them. If mommy's home, only she will do. Ultimately, this leads to me spending at least an hour and a half in the girls' room each night--coaxing them to sleep. Each of them "wants" me. I'm in the room with them. A room which, might I add, is only 11x11. They both sit in their beds and cry, saying, "Mommy, I waaaaaaaant you!" I understand that they love me, but all that whining makes me want a stiff drink. And I'm not talking coffee here, people. Speaking of which, I miss my best friend's coffee. I haven't seen her in a while. I miss her too. Anyways, back to the bitching...

So, last night, I called in the reinforcements. If I were a smart girl, I would have picked up the red batphone and called Gamma. But "Holy Helpless Husbands, Batman!" I called in their daddy. Don't get me wrong, my husband is a HUGE help, just not at bedtime. It's also not entirely his fault. Like I said above, the kids only want me at bedtime. I like to think that it's because I nursed both of them into toddlerhood, and they have a special bond with them; it would be wiser to think that they were both born in the throes of football season, so I'm the one that does most of the nurturing September through January. That's just how it goes. And with both of them having birthdays in September, well, let's just say that once February rolls around, they're asking who this strange man is that lives in our house. "It's daddy, honey. And that weird smell emanating from his body is pigskin. You'll get used to it."

Scott tagged me and I left the room, never to be seen or heard from again...for at least 15 minutes. Those 15 minutes of which, Clairey screamed (at the top of her lungs) for "mommeeeee!" at decibles that are only audible to mothers and chihuahuas. All my fine crystal shattered. Good thing Walmart always has it on sale. Fine crystal, that is. After Claire stopped screaming, I went in there and removed her sweaty, little, Pooh-jammied body from Scott's arms. She whimpered, "Mommeeeee..." then promptly passed out on my shoulder. Her hair was all damp and curled, her cheeks were flushed red from screaming, and my God, she was the most beautiful baby in all the world so I covered her in kisses and now do you see why i'm such a pushover?! Damn, damn these cute kids! Where was Jenna during all of this? You may think she was sleeping. Au contraire. She was lying in her bed, asking the random questions that only a three-year old can ask. And, of course, trying to sneak out of bed at any given moment.

I tucked Clairey into her bed, then tried to sneak out of the room. "Mommy, I WANT you!" Good Lord. Jenna just NEVER goes to sleep. So, I was a horrible mother, and instead of saying, "Tough" and making her go to sleep because that's what a good mother would do, I said, "Come on, Pooh. Let's go lie in mommy's bed and read some more 'Little House on the Prarie'."

Jenna and I snuggled up in my bed, her head in the crook of my arm, as I read from the "Little House" series. She fell asleep with the prarie winds, Jack the watchdog, and log cabins on her mind. Not a bad way to end the day.

Only a mother could write such a long and detailed post about bedtime. Once day, I'll be able to write: "It's 8:03 am. Do you know where your mind is? Why, yes, I do. It's sleeping!"

Jun 7, 2005

Not that it's important...

But today is a better day, work-wise. I'm not sure, but I think it has everything to do with me working out at lunch. OR, it could be that I've been reciting my mantra: "It's just a job, it's not my life. It's just a job, it's not my life."

It's all good.

Curious minds want to know...

Sibling Stories, update:

The house remained empty, untouched for well over a year. I think we thought that they were coming back, but they never did. One day, when we got home from school, the yard was being mowed, and the house cleaned up. They eventually sold it--After repairing the siding, removing the oranges from inside the walls, and replacing the potato-ey ac unit. Of course.

So, what happened to them? I really don't know. I vaguely remember hearing a rumor that they fled to Mexico, but I don't recall why. I'll have to see if my brother remembers.

Jun 6, 2005

Sibling Stories

Across the street from us, lived a Mexican couple named Noe and Sylvia. They had no children, were super-nice, and had a built-in pool that they let us use whenever we wanted. They could have been murderers, but hey! they let us use their pool, and when it's one-hundred frickin' degrees outside, I'd swim WHILE they were trying to stab me. It was all good. They both worked for the U.S. Postal Service. No idea what they actually did, but they worked at the post office.

One day, Noe and Sylvia vanished. It took us a while to realize they were gone, since it was Winter, and really, if we weren't using their pool, then there was no reason to go over there. One day, the three of us just realized that we hadn't seen them in forever. We trekked across the street and knocked on the door--no one answered. We walked to the side of the house and opened the gate into the backyard--it was overgrown with tall weeds. The pool had become a cesspit of frothy, green, bubbles, and black algae. You couldn't even see the steps in the shallow end. All the blinds on the back windows were closed, so we couldn't even peek inside. So, being young and quick-witted, we quickly came to the conclusion that Noe had murdered Sylvia and dumped her body in the pool, where it had been rotting for months. We also liked to scare ourselves silly--did I mention that?

As soon as my parents were home from work, we spun our sinister tale of murder, deception, and nasty-pool-algae. Rightfully, the parents were concerned, so they decided to go check it out for themselves. I must explain, that they weren't concerned that we were telling the truth about a body in the pool, since we had no factual evidence, but they were concerned that the house was in such a state that it definitely pointed to the owners not being in attendance. My parents ordered us to stay home while they checked it out. SURE. The whole family ended up over there, because, hey, if a rotted corpse began to crawl out of the pool and attack my parents, we had to be there to save them. Or at least push them in the pool so the corpse couldn't get us. Either way.

Mom and Dad found that the bottom, bedroom window was unlocked. They opened it, and we all climbed in... What we saw, once our eyes adjusted to the darkness, was surprising. Everything was still in it's place. Nothing had been moved, nothing was missing. The only odd thing about the place was that it contained a horrible, musty odor. The odor of being closed-up with no air circulation for months. We looked around the house. The air was moist and thick--but totally untouched. We looked in the closet of the master bedroom: All the clothes were still there. All Sylvia's jewelry was still there. Her purses were there. I opened one, and it contained $50. Strange, right? Weird. We never saw, nor heard from them again. It was like they vanished off the face of the Earth, or at least went back to Mexico.

Since the house was empty, and my parents told us not to ever go over there again, we obeyed them completely. Instead of going over there, we used a huge sling-shot to shoot potatoes into their ac unit--which, once they hit the vents, turned into fries; and to shoot oranges into their siding. You know...normal kid stuff.

Conversations with Jenna

"Mom, can you see my oovoola?" (Opening mouth really wide.)
"Your what?"
"My OO-VOO-LA." (Again, opening mouth.)
"Your 'uvula'?"
With total exasperation, "YES! The little hangy thing in the back of my throat?!"

She keeps looking exasperated, while I continue to spasm with silent laughter. Just hearing "uvula" come out of a 3-year-old's mouth is hilarious.

Jun 3, 2005

Smoochy Mama

I was gone for 2 days, and I missed my chicks like I had been gone for years. They missed me, too, which was evident by the looks of surprise and awe when I picked them up at the sitter's. Seriously, you'd think I HAD been gone for a year. ONE day. ONE day I don't pick them up, and the shocked looks I get upon returning are just crazy.

Jenna: "MOMMY?! MOMMY!! I missed you SOOOOO much! Mommy! Mommy! Ooooo, I LOVE you, Mommy!"
Claire: "Momeeee! Mommeeee! Mommmeeeee!!! Luv ooo, luv ooo!!"

This is all going on whilst I'm being tackled and climbed upon, much like a mother opossum. Do opposums eat their young?

On to more blabbing...last night, Jenna told me that I was a "smoochilada." I'm assuming that's something like an enchilada, minus the beans and cheese. Then she explained to me that SHE was an apple smoochilada, and Claire was a banana smoochilada. So all evening, I was bombarded with requests to "Give the apple smoochilada a smoochilada." Translation: Give Jenna a kiss.

10pm, I'm in the girls' room giving them a last kiss before going to bed. I lean over to Jenna, and she whispers, "I love you, my smoochilada."

Saving the world

I hate the first few weeks of a new job. Everything is in such disarray. It's such a mess. I can't wait to fix it, but it's overwhelming. I feel like I'm in an episode of McGyver:

"Here, Stephanie! The world is about to explode! You must fix it! However, you only have a rusted staple, a poppy-seed bagel, and some 'Grecian Formula for Men'. Hurry!"

Jun 2, 2005

Good to be home

Oh, the joys of a new job. No time, too much work, too much to learn, and really, what the hell am I doing? It's always SO DAMN FUN.

I flew into Colorado on Tuesday morning, flew back to Houston Wednesday afternoon. The plane ride was hot, loud, and too long. Much like how sex should be, but in fact, I was no where near getting any, and instead, was sitting next to an old man that snored loudly.

I stayed in a fabulous old hotel, that was indeed old, but thankfully, had been renovated, and slept in the most comfortable bed ever--Nearly rivaling that of the Four Seasons. However, I slept not a wink. I was checking the clock every 30 minutes for no apparent reason, other than I hate sleeping alone, the place smelled funny, and there was no shoe-molding. That bothers me a lot. I hate unfinished flooring.

Colorado is gorgeous--I was right by CSU--and the weather was fantastic.

Things I learned in Colorado:
- The airport is big. Really big.
- Old hotels smell funny. (This could be true outside of Colorado as well...)
- People wear shorts, even when it's 60 degrees out.
- Limo drivers named "Tony," drive over the speed limit.