Being a Tool Time Gurl in the House of Utter Chaos

I'm not afraid to work on stuff around the house. Hubby used to say that he fell in love with me because, shortly after we first met, I showed him how to put brake pads on his car. (We actually drove the exact same make and model of car when we met.) I used to change my oil and filters, and all that rot, all the time. No biggie.

Of course, now the hubby thumps his chest and declares his manliness by doing it for me, but I'm not complaining.

It should be no surprise to anyone that I fixed the refrigerator today. We had the same problem a few months ago. Water was leaking under the drawers at the bottom, and it kept freezing. When it first happened, I of course went to my good friend Mr Google, figured it out, and showed my boys how to do it. It involves a frozen drain, and you have to dump enough hot water down the little tube to unthaw it. No problem.

I went to Michigan this summer, and the same thing was going on at my mom and dad's house. They are still in awe that their darling baby fixed the fridge.

When the problem reoccurred today, it should've been a snap. Except no -- nothing about today was a snap. Did shipping -- it took ALL morning, and it's still not done, because some stuff is here, some's at the rental space, and some.........well, let's just say that there were some bad words involved.

Went grocery shopping with the ds12, to the tune of $300. Yep, $300. I haven't done THAT in a long time, but the cupboards were bare. It wasn't till that $300 in groceries was put away that I realized that the fridge was outta whack, so we had to unload said groceries, strip the fridge down, and get 'er done. Of course, I'm standing ankle deep in water when the car shop calls, asking why I didn't bring my car in today (had a car accident last week, but that's yet another story). Hubby called not once, but twice, mostly just to chat about our holiday plans.

By the time I was done, it was like the Great Flood in the kitchen, and water was everywhere. Kinda reminded me of the night dd put Dawn in the dishwasher. (That's definitely another story.) It took me about two hours to get everything back to where it was, and brown some hamburger for dinner -- because ds17 informed me that he wanted "man meat" for dinner, and "man meat" means beef. ::sigh:: By the time hubby got home, I had the look of an assassin in my eye, I'm sure.

He ordered Chinese takeout.

OYE. Just another day of Utter Chaos.

Secret Santa and the Jill House Rocks!

The VCA board on ebay used to have a wonderful Secret Santa exchange. This particular year, my vintie dd decided that she wanted to join in. We've had fun shopping for our SS's, with the fact that we too will receive presents in the back of our heads. I know who got her name, and it's so much fun to watch it happen. SS told me that she was mailing the first package to the dd on Friday, so I knew it'd be here soon.

Here's the way it evolved:

DD: “Mail’s here. Looks like junk.”
Mother: “Any packages?”
DD: I didn’t hear him leave any.
Mom: That doesn’t mean he didn’t leave any.

Mother, always knowing best, saunters out to the porch whilst dd heads upstairs to rock it with more AC/DC, Foreigner, and any other assorted number of bands that her mother listened to in hs. Mother finds package on chair on porch, just as she had suspected.

Mother wanders to stairs and calls up to dd – “Hey, I thought there weren’t any packages.” DD sticks head over railing and says “oh, sorry, I didn’t hear him leave it.” Starts to walk away until mother quietly says “it’s for you. ” “I’m not expecting anything.” Mother responds two little words: “Secret Santa.”

::sound of dd crashing down the stairs at lightspeed::

::dd looks at package with glee::

::sound of package being shaken by the dd::

DD, calmer now, trying to show the maturity that comes with her almost 16 years: “Shes from Florida. Do you know who it is? I guess I should to wait till Christmas to open it?” This is said as a question, not a statement.

Mother: “I don’t think you have to…..”
DD: “Then I’m opening it” DD is already halfway to the kitchen, searching for a knife.

::sound of tape ripping and box opening::


DD: Oh wow, she got me more than one present. Oh wow, look at this! I got a card. Look how cute it is. Look at all of these packages. Oh, this is FUN! Who is it?

Mother: Maybe you should open the card first.

::sound of card opening::

DD: She wrote me a poem. Isn’t this card cute? I’m gonna open the presents. Oh look at this little bag I love it and it matches the polka dot paper do you think she meant to do that and OMG I love the blue nail polish OMG the green is my *favorite* color and it matches my room and look at the orange and the purple and OH this is FUN.

::mother takes breath for dd::
::sound of paper ripping::

DD: Look how cute this purse is. I love it. It’s so cute.

::mother reaches for purse and dd takes it back, not so gently reminding mom that the purse is hers::

DD: Do you think she made this little drawstring bag herself.
Mother: I don’t know, is it a sachet?
DD: I don’t know what a sachet is, but I’m keeping that little bag because it’s so cute.
Mother: Well, you’d better open that bag because it feels like there’s something in there.

DD: Oh WOW, I love this bracelet! I’ve never found one like this. And it’s purple. I love it.

::slips bracelet onto her wrist::

DD: This is so fun.

::sound of paper ripping::

DD: Look at this Humane Society shirt. I love it. I’m going to put it on right after I do my nails I love my Secret who is it when will she tell me do I know her how did she know how much I love all this? My Secret Santa ROCKS.

::deep breath by mother::

DD: Maybe next time I should open the card last (finally realizes that the poem SS wrote for her revealed what the gifts were).

::wanders off to paint nails a lovely shade of lime green::

She's right. Secret Santa rocks.

Drivin' me crazy.

We're heading up to my parents' house today, when I get off work. Over the river and through the woods, you know. We'll do Thanksgiving tomorrow. Yesterday, we had leftovers for lunch, and the little family had soup for dinner whilst I was at work. Thanksgiving is like that sometimes.

Usually, on the day after Thanksgiving, the dh heads out to Christmas shop with our bratty girl. They get up about 4:30, and are on the move by 5, shopping for a few hours, then stopping for breakfast before Round 2. Apparently the brat didn't want to go this year -- which disappointed her dad a bit -- so they are just packing up to leave for Michigan as soon as I get off work.

They aren't bad car travellers, for the most part. DS17 just leans back and conks out with his iPod on. Worst thing about that is the shaking of the car as he snores, but hey, we all have our issues. DD will be asking if we're there yet by the time we get out of the driveway, and ds12 won't be far behind. But it all works out better since we got the van with the DVD player. Hubby will even stay awake for part of the trip if the movie's good. We've watched everything in there -- Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Moulin Rouge, Singing in the Rain, reruns of In Living Color.....you name it. It helps the car travelling tremendously.

That's why, when people ask me if I've seen such and such a movie, my usual response is that I've heard it five or six times, but never seen it -- cause I'm usually driving. I bet I'd heard The Others at least a dozen times before I actually saw it. Same thing with Fellowship of the Ring -- heard it, didn't see it. Then my brother informed me that I couldn't see The Two Towers unless I'd seen FotR first -- hearing it didn't do it justice. There are some movies that I still haven't seen to this day -- but I've heard more than once. I'm almost always the driver and, quite frankly, I don't like the dh driving when the DVDs are on, cause he tries to watch AND drive. Homey don't play dat. I want to live to get to my destination.

DD suggested that when we go to Michigan, we drive that behemoth of an RV that remains parked in our driveway. I envisioned that as something straight out of Vacation -- without the dead dog dragging behind. I told her no way, and her father wouldn't even respond -- he's still in mourning over all the trouble he went to, just to watch the Broncos lose. I told him that he brought bad karma to "his people" because he was watching the game in an RV all decked out with Colts decor. He just glared at me.

No eye candy today, because I am at work, dealing with the crazies, so I can't post a pic. More fun and games when I get back home again, in Indiana.

What is that behemoth doing in my driveway?

Hubby bought an old Town Car a few weeks ago. A 1990 Town Car. It's a beautiful car -- cherry red, and in mint condition. It was owned by an older gent who cared for it well. Hubby loves it.

But it's an aircraft carrier. I hate driving huge cars. I always have to test drive tons of cars before we buy one for me, so I get one I like. This one is HUGE, and thank God, it's not for me to drive. It fits into the garage with 1/2 inch of clearance, so I thought we had the biggest vehicle we could get into our driveway.

That was before someone pulled in tonight with an RV.

Hubby has been very crabby lately, because the NFL Network is showing the Broncos game on Thanksgiving night. Problem? We don't GET the NFL Network. He was ready to get rid of cable and get a dish -- and I'm not sure he still isn't going to. He even asked all of our friends if THEY get NFL network, so he could come over and watch the game. On Thanksgiving night.

Yeah, he's nuts. Especially about his Broncos.

But then he found out that a friend from church has an RV with satellite TV. Said friend said sure, he'd come and park it in the driveway, so hubby can watch the game in it. That's how we ended up with a behemoth in our driveway. It is so tightly packed in there that they a) couldn't pull it all the way to the back and b) can't get the door all the way open to get in and out.

But the hubby is happy as a clam, and the kids are sleeping in it. Never mind that it's the RV that our friend takes to the Colts games, so he can tailgate. Never mind the Colts decor. He is going to watch the BRONCOS on the NFL NETWORK, baby. ::sigh:: I'll be at work, so he can do what he wants.

God Save Me, I'm the Queen

Husbands and wives tend to have pet names for one another. Sometimes it's dear, or darling, or, in my dad's case, he calls my mom Babe.

Hubby calls me queen.

In the house, at restaurants, and even once, in Target, when he was just being him -- bellowing "QUEEN!" down every aisle, just to see if he could embarrass me. OYE.

A lot of people might think that this has something to do with respect, but it really has nothing to do with that at all. It has to do with a gay guy in Florida, who had a wild crush on my husband, before we got married.

His name was Vince, or Emmanuelle, depending upon what nametag he wore at work. Hubby was a McDonald's manager, and Vince was one of the crew people. I knew that he had a crush on him, and just verified it when I went to pick up the then boyfriend from work. He was talking to the crew, and when he was done, he went back to the office to get something. Vince was the one who stared longingly at him as he walked away.

Yep, he was checkin' him out.

Vince once told him "baby, if you would just let me dress you up and do your hair, we could go out and you could be my queen." Hubby informed him thanks, but he already had his queen, and her name was not Vince. Or Emmanuel. I think it almost killed poor Vince.

Vince actually danced for him at our going away party. We had decided to move to Orlando, and his crew had a little get together for us. Vince was the one who danced to Prince's "Raspberry Beret", whilst stripping down to his red bikini underwear. We died laughing.

So yes, that's how I became the Queen. God save me, that's how our life goes.

.

At the sound of the bell................

Most of you know that I am a nurse. I don't work in the trenches anymore; I work in a call center, answering calls for people who call hospitals and doctors' offices when they are closed. They call with questions, day and night. We never know what is going to happen when the phone rings, or the pager goes off.

But tonight was a doozy. Here's a little sampling:

"I have a few questions about oral sex. I was sitting here, thinking about foreplay and about receiving oral sex and wondered, can you get any STD from receiving oral sex?"

Guess she doesn't watch Monday Night Football.

"Oh, really? Well, maybe I shouldn't let anyone do that to me."

"How can you prevent getting an STD during foreplay or oral sex?"

"Oh, I don't think I should let him do that anymore."

"Oh, and one more question: a friend told me that if you are receiving oral sex, and a man blows into you (NOTE: apparently this does NOT apply to lesbians) that you can get something, is that true?"

"Oh, well, maybe I just shouldn't let him do THAT either."

Ma'am, the next sound you'll hear is the sound of the "you're too dumb to have sex" alarm. EVER. EVER.

ding ding ding

Kinda along the same vein as the call I had a couple of weeks ago, saying "he just gave me oral sex (NOTE: she used a much more crass term) and now my lip is all blown up and swollen." Mind you, this is NOT the lip she kisses her mother with. I go through all of the usual questions: how long ago ("about three minutes"), are you in pain ("hell, yes"), any chance that you're pregnant (let's hope not). When I told her I thought she would live to ahem, love again, she practically yelled "but what am I gonna do about this swollen up lip?"

ding ding ding

I mentioned it to my dearly beloved, and he said I should've told her to get with a vegetarian the next time.

Yet another one:

Page reads: "dead baby in tube". Test tube? Fallopian tube? Pneumatic tube? Sometimes you just don't want to know.

Caller:

"I went to the doctor because I have this pain on the right lower side. They said I had an infection, and gave me antibiotics, but they didn't say anything about that maybe I have a dead baby in my tube."

"Oh, I had a tubal ligation a year ago, and now I am itching like crazy, and tearing my skin up till I bleed, and no one has said that maybe it's from a baby in my tube."

"And I have constant pain that only is there when I move a certain way, but the itching has me all broken out in sores, and I can't stop scratching."

"I don't have any sores, but I can't sleep and I need to make an appt to talk to the doctor about getting this tubal ligation reversed. I don't want any more kids, but I have to stop this itching, and if it means that I have to have the tubal reversed, then I will. If I get that tubal reversed, will that dead baby just pass, or what?"


Oh. MY. GOD.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

This coming after the first call of the shift, when a mom said her kid was in the office today, had a shot of antibiotics, because "he's not good with medicines", and he's not any better now. Well, of course not, cause it takes antibiotics a while to kick in. But Mom wants the doc paged. Doc isn't on call. Doc on call doesn't know her child from Adam, but Mom wants to talk to the doctor. NOW.

No, he's not in pain. No, I'm not concerned about dehydration. No, he's not running a fever. "Ma'am, why is it that you need to talk to the doctor?"

"Because his body is eating all of his fat up." Now, the nurse asks, very gently (as the mother was irate before the first word exchanged): "How do you know his body is eating all the fat up?"

"Because (insert, you stupid b*tch nurse who obviously knows nothing), I can smell it on his breath."

Alrighty then.

I'll tell you one thing: if you can smell fat on someone's breath, I smell like Three Musketeers.

Are they vegetarians?

The not so jolly Gentle Giant

Well, I will say, after this entry, I don't think I'm going to blog about squirrels. Don't quote me on that, though, cause nothing is permanent at our house. Except laundry. And dirty dishes. And cleaning the bathroom. Ok, so you get my drift.

The other night, just after I had blogged about the squirrels, we had a trauma here. Jill let our dog, a sweet almost nine year old German Shepherd mix, out to do his business. My MIL calls him the gentle giant, and he's a big baby. Well, my big ole baby dog shot out the door like his butt was on fire, and went tearing down the driveway. Jill thought someone was out front with a strange dog, so she ran after him. (You have to see our yard to understand why we can't fence the whole thing in.)

When Jill arrived in the front, my sweet Timmy dawg had a squirrel in his clutches. A big, fat, screaming for his very life, squirrel. DD (the vegetarian, remember) starting screaming at the dog, almost as loudly as the squirrel himself was yelling, whilst the dog is going nuts. Dog finally turns tail into the backyard, squirrel in mouth, with dd chasing after him. She finally got him to drop it, and drug the dog into the house, screaming the whole way.

She tore into the living room where I was, pleading that I need to take the squirrel to the vet. Now remember, I am a triage nurse. I talk to people all night, and have gotten a fair share of calls about interactions with wildlife that did not go well. NO WAY I'm gonna touch that squirrel and get bitten, or scratched, or whatever. So of course, then I was the bad guy, because I wasn't helping out the hysterical dd. "Are you just gonna let it die," shouts the dd, with the most enraged look I've seen out of her in a while. And she's 15, so I have seen rage in her eye. ::sigh:: Yep, the dog eats the squirrel, and MOM is the bad guy. That's my life.

So she starts yelling about how the hubby is gonna go out and pop it on the head with a hammer to finish it off, and how we need to take it to the vet. Hubby is running around, looking through the toolbox under the bed (MY toolbox, mind you. The one he said I never needed, cause why would a woman need a toolbox. Well, it wasn't exactly there so I could clobber a squirrel, I'll tell you that.) Whilst Jill is screaming and hubby is rifling the toolbox, Thomas was standing there, laughing like a hyena about how our sweet dog nailed the squirrel.

And into the midst of all of this wanders the totally clueless Seth saying "I thought we were going out to eat." Yes, he is blonde.

And there I sat on the couch, mouth hanging open, wondering why in the world anyone would call our house anything but Utter Chaos.

Five minutes later, hubby found the hammer, and went outside, only to find that the squirrel had already gone on to its eternal reward. Half an hour later we were sitting in Damon's ordering dinner. With appetizer AND dessert. ::sigh::

And the dog still wonders what in the world all the hubbub was about.

So, the answer to "why did the squirrel cross the road," the answer: to get away from the dude with the hammer.

Wild Cows

As I mentioned yesterday, my little family is hopelessly city. The youngest ds will NEVER live anywhere close to a barn, as he is very sensitive to smells, and lets anyone within shouting distance know about his dislike of the odiferous nature of the city. Nope, he'll live in the city his whole life.

DS17 said once that it is his entire goal in life to never go outside, given the chance. He hates the outdoors -- but I will say that he does like camping. (See archived posts for his camping adventures -- he brings a unique, masochistic angle to camping.)

But now dd will likely live out her days in the country. All she needs is a cowboy to pay her way, and off she'll go. She loves animals of all kinds, doesn't matter what it is. Loves 'em more than people, most days, and will have a veritable zoo when she's on her own. Actually has the better portion of a zoo, even here.

She knows a lot about animals too. Watches the dog shows pretty regularly and will almost always correctly choose the winner. Had an animal rescue for a while, and adopted out over 100 cats, on her own. She's an animal lover, through and through.

But the one animal moment she'll never live down is her experience with wild cows. She was seven, and I was driving to my sister's house, south of St Louis. I had three kids and a large dog in the car with me. We had just driven out of St Louis, when she looked at me, with that awe that only a small child can have, and announced excitedly "MOM! You are NOT gonna believe what I just saw. I just saw either a wild horse, or a wild cow." Cracked me right up. I'm not sure what was funnier -- that she couldn't tell the difference between a horse and a cow, or the wild element she brought to it. Still cracks me up, to this day.

But then she went on a youth group trip last month, to a farm owned by one of the kid's grandparents. A farm where the neighbors reportedly have a pet lion. Crazy enough, but then, when they got ready to go out to the pasture, the grandparents warned them "don't get too close to the cows out there. They're kind of wild, and they might hurt you." Feral cows. Who'da thunk it? Ya go to the country, and figure it's the neighbor's lion that might eat you but no, it's the wild cows you have to worry about.

But it made dd happy, so we're all happy, cause when the teenage dd is happy, the whole house is happy.

The Outlaw Josie Wales

I've mentioned before the hopelessly city nature of my little family. They are fairly clueless of most things country, and it can give me a giggle, from time to time.

It's kind of funny how the men of my house are, when it comes to horses. We used to vacation in Tennessee pretty regularly, and one of the thigns dd liked to do was horseback ride. The youngest ds was four, the first time we did it. We have pictures of him sitting on the back of a horse, looking VERY serious, but at least he did it. Hubby and oldest ds went on a cave tour whilst we rode, because they do NOT like horses.

The next year, we went to another place that wouldn't let ds ride alone. We popped him on the horse with me, whilst dd rode another horse. The other ds, and hubby? They rode in the Cinderella carriage, behind us. It was just wrong, in so many ways.

Since then, hubby has made it very clear that he had no intention of riding a horse. He just doesn't like them. Doesn't even like to watch dd ride, in her lessons. He even came home one time, swearing that dd was galloping in her lesson. "No, dear," says me, "she was probably trotting, or maybe even cantering, but NOT galloping." He still swears to this day that she was, indeed galloping. Then there was the day that she fell off the horse, due to a saddle malfunction. He scooped her up and brought her home -- even forgot to pay for her lesson. Into the house she walked, crying. When I asked dh if he made her get on the horse, he said no way -- he took her home, because he wanted to make sure she hadn't dislocated a hip or something.

TIP: if you dislocate a hip, you would NOT be able to walk.

So, when dd bought a horse a month or so ago, we figured we'd be lucky to get him to the barn, but to actually RIDE the horse? No way. But this past week, he told her he was gonna ride. We all said we'd believe it when we saw it. DD called me on Sunday afternoon, asking me to take her to the stables, cause he had changed his mind. "No way," says me. "Make him take you, cause he said he was going to ride."

And ride, he did. I think dd led him around like a pony ride at first, but he demanded the reins and took a walk around the ring. DD called me, amazed that the big man had actually climbed in and was riding. She's telling me all about it, whilst the dh is yelling "I'm the outlaw Josie Wales, baby," in the background.

One ride, and now he's Clint Eastwood. LOL But at least it's progress. Now if we can just get ds17 outta the Cinderella carriage, life will be complete.

The whole world's a squirrel, and my family is nuts

Winter is coming, and the squirrels are out in droves. More than one in our neighborhood has gone on to meet his maker, when trying to answer that fateful question - why did the squirrel cross the road? (Answer in our neighborhood: cause he had a death wish.)

The squirrels make me crazy, because I not only have to play dodge 'em with them when I'm driving, but our dogs think it is their mission in life to rid the world of squirrels. This means that instead of performing the intended functions outside, at the first sound of a squirrel, they will barrel over our 5+ foot privacy fence, and make for the trees. I'm left chasing after them, at 7 in the morning in my bathrobe, swearing my intentions to either euthanize the idiot dogs, or eat them. I'm sure the neighbors just love it. It's not a pretty sight, let me tell you.

But the squirrels aren't the only ones here storing up for the winter. Food has been disappearing here at an alarming rate. I made a pan of brownies last night -- a 13 X 9 pan, I might add -- and it was gone in less than an hour. Mind you, there are five people in our family, and I didn't eat any of them. But of course, bring it up to the little family, and they do a Hallelujah chorus of "I didn't get any either." Right.

My family hides food everywhere. I keep telling them that they are all headed for eating disorders, because there is food squirreled in every corner of the house. I've never seen anything like it, and the dh is the worst. I can't tell you how many times I have opened his sock drawer to put things away, and found Twinkies or cookies or Blowpops. I always know if the kids have found his newest hiding place, because I'll hear a cabinet or drawer open, and the next thing I hear is him muttering "d*mn kids. I can't keep anything around here."

Now, we get an unbelievable amount of trick or treaters at our house. People import them from the neighborhoods around us, because we have a nice neighborhood where people feel safe -- and we are surrounded by the ghetto. I'm never quite sure how much candy to buy for Halloween, and I have to buy it at the last minute, lest it disappear into the depths of our house somewhere, never to be seen again. This year, I went to the store and bought candy to the tune of about $40, and told the dh he was, under NO circumstances, to open any bags until they were needed. I kept track of those bags, because I caught him trying to make off with one within ten minutes of it coming in the door. He and the kids agreed that the "good", aka chocolate, candy would be opened last, and were horrified to hear me say that if it wasn't used, it was going back to the store, because NO ONE in this house needs any more candy.

We had three bags of chocolate left over, which I put on the table and told the little family, under no circumstances were they to touch. I was going to return to the store the next door. Went to let the idiot dogs out, came back and the candy had disappeared into oblivion. Of course, NO ONE knew where it was, with the dh denying having taken it the most vociferously -- so, of course, I knew it was him. I looked in all of the usual places, with no luck. Oh well, I figured it was long gone, into his van, his workshop, or his belly. Who knows.

So last week, I was straightening up our bedroom, getting ready for a photo shoot. Picked up one of his shirts and almost yelled, because I thought I'd found a mouse nest, right in our room.

It was a piled of empty Snickers wrappers.

Not too long after that, I came upon his stash. When I mentioned it to him that night, all he could do was grin. While eating a Three Musketeers AND a Snickers.

I live with a bunch of squirrels.

Hoosier mountain biking

My hubby likes to live on the edge. He's calmed a bit over the years, but still likes to push the limits. He says it's his Sagittarian ways. I say he's either brave, or stupid -- with love in my heart, of course.

Several years back, he did a lot of biking. Not on a motorcycle, mind you, but bicycling. He rode his bike to work, took long rides on days off, and would do a bit of mountain biking with friends on the weekend. Indiana doesn't exactly have mountains, but he did ride a bike through the woods and the hills -- mountain biking, Hoosier style.

The guys he rode with had a trophy that was passed amongst them. Constructed of a part of a bike, embedded in a stump, it was given, at the end of the day, to the guy who had the most spectacular wreck. It was the responsibility of the winner to display it "prominently" in their house -- if any of the group didn't see it when they visited, there were penalties, though I never knew what they were. (Some kind of man law thing, I suppose.)

Before the next bike outing, the winner was responsible for adorning it with some type of piece that was appropriate for the subject. It was covered with bandaids, stickers, and some brave soul added an athletic cup. I never asked whose bright idea that was, but the guys loved it. I marvelled that we hadn't had the trophy at our house. Hubby claimed it was his expertise in riding; I called it dumb luck. Till one fateful day.

Hubby gave me a smooch and headed out, planning to spend most of the day biking. I went out for a while, and was surprised to find him in the recliner when I got home. I greeted him with my normal question, "did you win the trophy?" He logrolled over my way and said "no, but I almost died." Oye.

It had rained in the days before, and the woods were muddy. Hubby apparently went to jump a creek, didn't get the front wheels up in time, and when the tires embedded themselves in the mud, he went flying over the handlebars landing, as I'm told, vertically in the creek, on his head. The other guys came flying through the woods and helped him up, got him in the van, and drove him home. Of course, this was not until one of the riders showed him how to properly jump the creek. Again, man law.

He arrived home with numbness in both arms and toddled off to Medcheck with his loving wife, where he was told that he had pretty much done the same type of thing that Christopher Reeve had done, but that the water had absorbed much of the blow. Bruised his spinal cord and his ego, but he was at church the next day -- where the guys all came to check on him during the passing of the peace. I expected it to be the passing of the trophy -- must've been a pretty spectacular fall, for all of the guys to show up like that. They all agreed that he had won the trophy for life.

He hasn't biked like that since, though he still does hit the pavement now and again. With a helmet on.

Snow Queen 4, Hubby 0

My husband has a thing about keys. He can't seem to keep them in his possession. This man, the love of my life, lost his keys in the snow outside my apartment in the first month that we knew each other. That was November, and those keys didn't show up till spring. I should've known.

Actually, I should've known the night we met, because he left his wallet behind in the club where we were, and when we went out to eat, guess who had to pay. That was in the first few hours we after we met. Yep, I should've known.

He had his twentieth anniversary of losing his keys to the snow queen a few years back, and celebrated by, yet again, losing his keys in the snow -- this time on the campus of Butler University. Never found those ones, either. ::sigh:: Some things never change.

Hubby gave me some ribbing a couple of weeks ago, when I locked my keys in my van when we were visiting dd's horse. Of course, I gently reminded him of the time that I had to leave work, because my beloved had locked himself out of his van while standing outside the bank -- with the van running. In the middle of winter. He head just left the YMCA, so there he stood, in shorts, with wet hair, shivering. A hapless victim of the snow queen, yet again. At least I chose warm weather, and had somewhere to get out of the weather, even if it was a barn full of horses.

But the real kicker was the time that we went to the American Heart Association's Bowlathon. We went with another couple, and bowled to our heart's content. (Pun intended, or not, you decide.) As I recall, I won a cookbook, too. But the highlight of the night was when we left. It was about 1 am, and the north wind was blowing cold -- it was about 20 below. No joke. The coldest night of the winter. We go out to the van, and discover that it's locked -- I don't have the keys, so I look at him. He points inside, where I can see my keys dangling from the steering column. "I left them in there for safekeeping." Yep. The best way to keep your keys safe, according to my dear darling husband, is to lock them in the van. On the coldest night of the year. I look at him and say "just how are we supposed to get in?"

Well, my Mensa wannabee husband says, with a rather hoity tone, "we have keyless entry," and plugs in our four digit code, and was met with......nothing. Several tries later, he realizes that he had left the headlights on when we went inside, so now the battery is dead, with our keys inside it. And we are 45 minutes from home. At 1 a.m. With the bowling alley closing. Yep. It wasn't pretty.

Ended up having to call a cab, in order to get home. We made the hub sit up front with the cab driver, who listened to the defendant tell the story, looking for a sympathetic ear. He didn't get it. I'm not even sure the cab driver spoke English, but even he looked at the man like he was nuts. And Marty, our friend, who was best man at our wedding, just calls up to the front seat and says, "hey man, face it, you screwed up."

Silence, the rest of the way home, except from the hubby, who to this day still thinks that the real problem wasn't that he left the keys in the car for safekeeping, but was that the headlights got left on, leaving the battery dead. The Snow Queen won, yet again.

If it's a boy, it must be Turkey

My youngest has a birthday coming up. Hard to believe he's going to be 12, but life does tend to march on. Next year, I will officially be the mother of three teenagers. Pray for me.

When I was pregnant with ds, I had a rotten gallbladder. Due to a mixup at the doctor's office, I was given this diagnosis six months after I had the testing done -- and by then, I just happened to be six weeks pregnant.

That pregnancy was a roller coaster ride. I was in and out of the hospital, and my mom came up from Florida several times, to help with the other two kids. I had preterm labor, so I was on bedrest for twelve weeks. Basically, I told my friends that if I ever mentioned that I wanted to get pregnant again, that they had my permission to shoot me.

My parents were planning an overseas trip, about the time I was due. The closer the time came, the more my mom fretted. She told me that I needed to tell my doctor to induce me, so that they would know that everything was ok. They were going to Turkey, and didn't know if there were going to be phones there, to get the happy news. I told her that I couldn't just demand to be induced.

Then, the morning of their departure, my water broke.

I called hubby and told him to come home. He called back to check on me, and didn't even recognize my voice, bellowing "WHO IS THIS?" into the phone. Geez, honey, just come home! Called my mom and told her that it looked like the baby was on his way. They were just getting ready to go to the airport, so she said she'd call me from the airport in Tampa.

They did. "Ain't nothin happenin' but the rent, Mom." Ok, she said, she'd call me from the airport in DC. Which she did, as soon as they arrived.

"Ain't nothin happenin' but the rent, Mom." Oh for heavens sake, says Mother, I'll call you right before we get on the plane. Again, "ain't nothin' happenin' but the rent." Mom was coming slightly unglued.

So, push comes to baby, and everything was fine. Then, our secretary called into the room. Rather hesitantly, she said "Lisa, your parents are on the phone." Long pause. "They're calling from a plane."

So, my parents got the happy news whilst somewhere between here and Constantinople. And that child has given us nothing but excitement ever since.

You show me yours, I'll show it to my cousin.

Some people are just really stupid. I'm sorry, but it's the honest truth. And I've taken care of a lot of them.

One time when we lived in Florida, I got a new admission in the ICU. Something new: a rattlesnake bite. I'd never taken care of a patient with a rattlesnake bite before. I went in to do an initial assessment on him -- this guy's arm was at least three times its normal size. It was a sight to see, believe me.

I'm a chatty person. OK, so I talk too much, but it helps a bit, when you're a nurse. You find out all kinds of things if you know how to talk to people. One time, the neighborhood hottie was at our house. He ended up staying for 2 1/2 hours, telling me everything from his middle name to how he almost got arrested, to how he duct taped a kid to the flagpole at school. DD asked, "how in the world did you get him to tell you all that?" It's my job, ma'am.

So, I was talking to my patient whilst I settled him in. He was from Tennessee, and had an accent to prove it. We got to talking, and I asked him how in the world he got a rattlesnake bite on his thumb. Here's what he said:

::imagine slow Tennessee drawl::
"I was walking down the road to my cousins, and I saw this ole rattlesnake, just lyin' there, so I decided to take it and show it to my cousin. Picked it up, and it bit me, right on the thumb."

I asked, "What'd you do next?"

Reply: "I kilt it with a rock."

Me: "Well, then what'd you do?"

Einstein: "Took it and showed it to my cousin."

OYE. That guy probably has a whole bevy of children who all look like him by now.

But Mommy, I don't wanna live in the shelter!

We love our neighborhood. As a matter of fact, my hubby used to ride his bike through our neighborhood when he was a kid and wish that he lived here. We live exactly eight blocks from the hospital where the old guy was born. We will likely never move from here.

I grew up moving all over the place. My parents are part gypsy, I believe, don't like their blonde and red hair fool you -- the people just love to move. As a result, I moved 12 times by the time I was sixteen, and went to four different high schools. Hubby, on the other hand, lived in the same house that he was brought home from the hospital to, and his parents lived there for about five more years after he moved out. The man is ROOTED.

I told hubby that once we had kids, I didn't want to ever move, because I wanted the kids to know where home is. I even have a clipping from an old Oprah magazine that says "the most important gift in life is roots." And I firmly believe that.

So, I was a little unnerved a couple of summers ago when we had three -- count 'em, three, offers to buy our house. Mind you, it was not for sale. No sign, no mention of a sale, nothing. But yeah, three people seriously wanted us to sell them our house. One couple went so far as to send their agent over to look it over, and when we told her no, we love our house and don't want to sell, she ended up calling back a couple of weeks later saying that the couple said we could name a price, and they'd buy it. (We met that couple last year -- she really was serious, they really wanted it, but had to buy a block over when we wouldn't sell.)

Hubby said "let's just name a crazy, exhorbitant price, and see what happens." I just looked at him and asked "where exactly are we going to live? In the shelter? Homey don't play dat." ::whapped hubby firmly on the head::

About that time, one of the kids walked in and quite firmly announced "Mommy, I do NOT want to live in the shelter." Alrighty then.

Fortunately, he wasn't serious, and neither was I, so here we are, thirteen years after we moved in. I'll probably be taken outta this house feet first, but that's ok with me. We all know where home is.

Vintage Terrorists: take a picture, it'll last longer

We did a photo shoot yesterday, with a wonderful model. I was terrified, not knowing what to expect. I've never worked with a model before, so it was a bit unnerving, wondering if anything would fit, would the clothes get damaged, was she going to think I was nuts...........in the end, it was like a big party.

We met at Starbucks. I walked in with armloads of vintage, and we let her try them on, one by one. We had one lady ask if we were doing a wedding, and one man who walked up and told us his son was a model with A&F and Budweiser. Then, of course, there was the very odd lady who rubbed dd's head whilst talking about Project Runway, and when Kailly walked out, kept touching the clothes -- while they were on her. I knew there's a reason I don't go to the north side of Indy much......

I didn't know what would fit, or what would look good, so I took a bunch of stuff. Started out slow, with a striped day dress. I was so happy to see that it fit her great, so I got out some of the great 50s stuff we have. She was in love!

Next, we moved on to the Central Library, which is downtown, in a huge marble building that once was the Indiana State Museum. Marched right in, through the metal detectors (who wants to terrorize a library, I ask you?), once again carrying armloads of vintage, crinolines, purses, anything we could carry. Marched straight into the privvy and set up shop.

We had a professional photographer for this part of the shoot, and got pics on the stairs, amongst the books, all over. Until security showed up and informed us that "you can't take pics in here." Guess they thought we were gonna bust some caps. Oh well, didn't want to get security's crinoline in a knot, so we went back out, followed closely by security. She parked herself on the steps, watching to make sure that the Vintage Terroristas left. What she didn't know was that we just took Kailly, now in a strappy beaded number, exactly like a Laura style from Project Runway, and went into the alley behind the library. Put her up against a chain link fence, and started shooting away.

There were guys on the third floor fire escape, who sat and watched the whole thing. Sulking, I might add, after they yelled down "can we get our picture taken with you?" and were told a firm NO. They watched, then went in and got another friend. Then did it again, several times, till we let poor frozen Kailly get dressed and left the alley.

So now, I'm not freaked out to use a model, can't wait to see the pics, and am looking forward to doing it again. WOOT!

Cooking for Dummies

I love cooking. I've cooked since I was a little kid, making cookies, pies, Caesar salad -- you name it. But I hate cooking for my family.

DD has been vegetarian since the age of 9. I don't mind that -- I can usually work around it pretty well. I don't make two different meals, I just make stuff and leave the meat out of hers. When ds found out she wasn't eating Babe anymore, he said "she's not eating meat? Pass me hers." It's been like that ever since.

I believe that ds has made a vow of some type, to never let a vegetable pass his lips. He doesn't like pasta or rice really well. He hates chicken with a passion. He has his own case of mad about cow disease. He loves beef, and has probably singlehandly depreciated the bovine population by a significant amount. If it's vegetarian, he won't touch it.

Hubby doesn't mind vegetarian, but, if I make something veggie, he thinks he's starving about two hours later, and heads to Wendy's.

I can sneak in something veggie from time to time. Those Boca crumbles are great! DD and I have a high sign we give each other when it's something meatless. DS started getting it for a while, saying "is there meat in here? Well, then why is she eating it?" My reply?

"What your sister does or does not eat, is of no concern to you. EAT." Purposefully nebulous. It works every time.

Invisible Poop Monsters

Potty training isn't fun. I know that there are those who say that a child should be potty trained by 2, but I beg to differ. You have to have some modicum of cooperation, or it just ain't gonna happen.

The names here have been changed, to protect the potty trained.

We have a photo of one of our children, sitting on the potty, "reading" (upside down) a book called "Chemotherapy and You." Yep. Hubby is an oncology nurse, and aforementioned child wanted a little light reading when nature called.

But the one that takes the cake is the child who decided that he just was NOT going to poop in the potty. And I mean, this child was determined not to use the potty. Just wasn't gonna happen. Now, putting pee in there was fine. We sunk a LOT of Cheerios -- the best way to teach the young 'uns to aim, and got that job done. It was pooping that was problematic.

We tried everything. Bought Spiderman undies and tried to get him to keep em clean -- no problem, he just wouldn't go at all. Tried sitting on the potty in a diaper, and then he refused to go anywhere near the bathroom. Tried prunes, raisins, bribes, and praying to the poop god. No go. He'd actually bring me the diaper, lay down on it, and all but hook it up himself, then go in our room, close the door and let it rip. If we forgot he was in there (or didn't know), we'd go in, and he'd be behind the door, pointing a little finger at us, whilst saying "go away." He was seriously freaked out.

Finally, when he was a little past four, the doc decided that the situation was nuts. Or maybe just that our child was nuts. Sent him to a psychologist who was promptly christened the Poop Counselor. Well, Dr PC was humored by the situation. I could tell from the look in his eye that he thought he was going to cure this situation in about two minutes flat. Asked said child why he wouldn't poop in the potty. Child, who was sitting and coloring on the floor, looked up furtively, said "monsters," and went back to coloring. Geez. That was a new one on me. I hadn't been told of the monsters, but now the truth was out. "Well," says Dr PC, "I have just the solution for that. I have invisible monster spray that'll cure it."

He left the room briefly, then returned holding not one but TWO cans of invisible monster spray. Asked ds, did he want to see how it worked, and we headed off down the hall. He showed us poop warfare, asked ds if he thought that would work, and got an answer in the affirmative.

Dr PC looked rather smug as we headed out the door, with me holding the two cans of Invisible Poop Monster Spray. The first set of double doors had scarcely closed behind us when ds turned, looked me straight in the eye and firmly stated, "monsters aren't real, that spray isn't real, and I'm not pooping in the potty." All righty then.

Took another six months, but the child finally broke down and did it--while I was at work. After all that work, I still can't take any credit. I still have the email I received from ds, announcing touchdown. It's in a certain baby book actually. I was told later, by one of his siblings, "I just told him he was going to sit on that potty, and I was gonna read to him till he pooped, or he wasn't getting up. We prolly read 50 books, but he did it." Like I hadn't tried every trick in the book that every friend, co-worker, doctor, and internet bulletin board had recommended. Heck, we even read "Everybody Poops."We had a whole poop reading club of books that'll never make Oprah's list. Turns out, dd wanted to have the poop party that we had promised him, once he reached the age of reason. And party we did.

What goes around, comes around

I am the youngest of five. By the time my parents got around to me, they likely were having a little trouble naming kids. My grandma did. Of course, anyone would have trouble naming 18 children.

My grandpa named my mom wrong, behind Grandma's back. They planned the first and last names, but at the last minute, he switched the middle name to the first name. They still called her by what was actually her middle name -- and she didn't even know that that was her name, till she got her first job.
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They named one of their sons a name pulled from the obituaries, the day after he was born. And two of the boys have the same middle name. When I asked why, they said "if you had 18 kids, you'd forget that you already used the name, too." Yep, I'd have to agree with that.

I was kind of named after Lisa, on As the World Turns. Not EXACTLY after her, but my mom did like the name. Years later, Lisa (who had been married about eleventy thousand times) got married to a man named Earl. I had just gotten married too, and when I watched an episode (cause I had been watching it since conception), Lisa introduced herself to someone. I thought to myself "why does that name sound familiar?"

She had MY name. Earl had the same name as my maiden name. So, I was once named after her, but then she ended up named after me.