We're not in Kansas anymore

So, the ds18 is home from school now, for the summer. Soon, he'll be starting work in my department, where the calendar currently reads "Utter training Utter." Kinda threw me for a loop for a minute, till I figured it out.

But not thrown so much for a loop as the ds's laundry, when he got home. Granted, he warned me last night, when he said that I would never believe all the laundry he had to bring home. Asking him if I was going to need a sherpa, just so we could get it to the van. This was followed by a discussion of sherpas and their crazy mad skills, which probably was a diversion for the mountain he intended to move -- straight into our bathroom, where the washer is located. OK, so he hadn't been home for three weeks, and he brought his ROOMMATE'S laundry home then, not his, so I knew that he hadn't done laundry in at least five weeks.

Granted, he developed something of a phobia of the laundromat at school after his laundry was stolen, the first time he did laundry there. But still, I wasn't prepared for this:



Yep, you can't get the bathroom door open, for all the laundry on the floor. Kind of reminded me of Dorothy walking out the door after crashlanding in Oz. If you poke around enough, you might find some shoes with ruby slippers poking out.

And note this:


Underneath that bedspread on the right, is another garbage bag of laundry that hasn't been sorted yet. Not shown is the other garbage bag of laundry still in the hall, and not opened or sorted yet.

And this basket, shown halfway through the sorting process,
is the laundry basket of socks that was full, by the time we were done sorting.

Oye. Well, thankfully, the big guy came home with detergent, because, as you probably guessed, he only did laundry at school a total of once -- and that was the time that it got stolen. So, despite the fact that I was out of detergent as of the load of towels I washed this morning, we were still able to dig right in.

Now, if we could get into the bathroom. Maybe by Saturday..........

What Floats My Boat

The Olympics are fast approaching, and all political protests aside, we love 'em. I've watched the Olympics since I was a kid, and enjoy them. Summer or winter, it really doesn't matter.

Last time around, in the summer Olympics, we watched a ton of events. I remember sitting in the living room, watching some vague track and field event, when suddenly ds shouted, "well, I guess I'll just bleed to death, and no one will care."

Nothing like a little blood to get people's attention.

Turned out the heir to the throne had been taking out the trash, not realizing that the ds had put some broken glass in the plastic bag he was toting. Lugging it out to the curb, that piece of glass put a nasty gash in ds's calf. By the time I got to him, there was a nice little puddle of blood on the front step, and it was obvious there would be some stitches involved.

Plopped him down in the grass, threw on my shoes, and went straight to Immediate Care. By the time we got there, my kid, 14 at the time, was like "dude, did you bring the camera? I need a video of them putting stitches in me. I could do serious things with that footage." Oye. That's my kid. My kid who didn't bother to tell me that he could feel the last couple of stitches going in, but didn't want a delay in the game by messing with more anesthesia.

That's my kid. He'd be a great discus thrower, but since he's friends with half of the track team at Vincennes, I don't think it will ever happen. Heck, he won't even lift with them, cause he says he doesn't need the humiliation.

DD, on the other hand, is quick to say that she wants to be on the rowing team. Specifically, she wants to be the coxswain because, as she says, she wants to be at the front of the boat, so she can yell, "row, you losers, ROW."

Cause that's how my bratty gurl rolls. She'd probably be best with the men's team, since she's so used to bossing her brothers and their friends around. Or, as the whacked out homeschool co-op director said "she'll never find a mate if she doesn't learn how to not be so harsh to the boys." Oye. Sorry, lady, she's not wearing any puff sleeve prairie dress, and I'm not interested in finding her a mate at the (then) age of 15. And if she did, she'd manage just fine by saying, "clean, you loser, clean!"

And it would work, trust me.

So, if you are looking for a great nautical print dress to show off your Olympic spirit, check out my girl Rubie, atThe Vintage Fashionista, and her iconic Claire McCardell nautical flag print dress. Buy, you losers, buy!

Miracles Never Cease

Finally, Indiana might matter. As a red state, our Democratic votes are rather ignored by the powers that be.

Heck, the only thing our vote has been counted on is American Idol, and even that didn't matter, cause Joey still lost. That's the only time I've ever voted, but dd voted every week, when Jesus was an early contestant. Yep, Jesus. Not Hay-sus. The guys mom actually named him Jesus.

I ask you, how can you NOT vote for Jesus? I mean, really, I think you can go to the bad place for that. DD would march around the house saying "vote for Jesus! Vote for Jesus!" It was pretty funny, till the day that he got booted, which was fairly early on. We had to listen to her diatribe about anti-Jesus folk for at least a week. Still comes up once in a while. Since then, she gave up voting for singers, and has moved on to wanting to vote for our next commander in chief.

The candidates are spending a lot of time in Indiana right now. It's a great motivator to get ds18 to vote -- he even went to listen to Bill Clinton when he visited his college campus. However the poor timing of the election incites rage in dd17, who missed the deadline to be able to vote by only about two months. Yeah, like we need another thing to honk off a teenaged girl.....but her anger at not being able to make her opinion more known she already does, especially to the powers that be. Like her father and me.

So all we see these days on TV are election commercials and, as ds13, who will one day make me laugh from six feet under, says, the only thing we haven't seen or heard is "I'm Jesus, and I approved this message."

So I went looking for a Jesus caftan, but alas, the closest thing I could find that interested me was this cool angel sleeve dress, from The Tartan Princess, on ebay. Not exactly tartan, but hey, isn't it cute? I vote yes.

Hit the road, Genevieve

I'm planning a little getaway in a couple of weeks -- girls day out. Of course, I have to drive 7 1/2 hours to have a girls day out, but hey, you take what you can get in this life.

I can hear the dd already. "What kind of mother leaves their children on Mother's Day?" This one, honey. Eat my dust, child.

So, we're gonna have a few online sellers get together in Des Moines, and raid Dorothea's Closet. She'd better be ready, that's for sure. I'm gonna take her some stock, and a little surprise, just for her, and we'll be joined by Jen, and Janet, and good times will be had by all.

Rental car, some tunes, and a Mountain Dew, and I'm ready for the road. There's nothing like some good road music to make your day. No Barney, no boy bands, no techno here. Just whatever the heck I want -- which is usually a weird mix of rock, alternative (R.E.M.), opera (Pavarotti baby, oh yeah!), and whatever else I happen to be in the mood to listen to.

Now if the family can just keep from killing one another whilst I am gone, it'll be great. And if you want some killer repro vintage, check out revampvintage.com - a fun site that you can spend some serious time in. The 1920s wedding dress reminds me of the photo of my grandparents wedding, and this over the top cute dress, called Genevieve, is perfect for travelling. I wish I could see the back of the hat though. I love hats, and my mommy always said I look good in them, but this one looks strangely like a large dinner roll in the photo. Perfect for the sweet and innocent look that might be needed when I tell the hubby "what happens in Des Moines, stays in Des Moines."

International House of Punk

So, The Bratty Gurl has a 2 hour break for lunch every day. She doesn't handle boredom well, and is constantly asking me to come up and have lunch with her. Only did it once before, when my parents were visiting, but I was in a good mood today, so I went and met her.

We met at IHOP. She called and told me to meet her, and I left in a few minutes. As I was pulling in the parking lot, she called me again, to see where I was. I told you, she doesn't handle boredom well. When I walked in, there she was sitting there, waiting.

Our waitress just happened to be the same one as the day that I went there with my parents. I even ordered the same thing as that day, because I like to eat breakfast when we go out. Sitting there, listening to the dd talking about her meeting with her ignorant history teacher, who she'd had an appointment with. She met with him about her paper, which he wouldn't give back to her, and had given her a C on. The girl has never gotten a C on a paper in her life. So when she met with the instructor, he informs her that he'd upped her paper a full letter grade, because when he read it, "it was better than I thought." Duh. The girl can write.

So we're sitting there, and I realize that on the overhead, The Ramones are singing "I Want to be Sedated." Odd choice, in the International House of Pancakes. But maybe it's just me. The only time I actually saw the Ramones in action was at the drive-in, in Rock & Roll High School, which was, oddly the second half of a double feature whose first half was Grease 2. I guess most of my experiences with the Ramones have been rather surrent, but at lunch, the music went from The Ramones to Frank Sinatra, Madonna, and when we were leaving, Prince singing When Doves Cry. Now, we all know I loves me some Prince, but in IHOP? How odd is that?

Tipper Gore would choke on her grits, I'm sure.

Pondered on it a bit over my scrambled eggs, then left so dd could get to her next class. Waved like mad at her as she was going out the parking lot -- we have this thing of waving at each other with wild enthusiasm, mouth agape -- till I realized that it wasn't her, but some soccer mom in a van that looked just like the one dd was driving. Oh well. Maybe that made that lady's day. Or maybe not, but I can't do anything about it now.

And so, in honor of IHOP and all that rocks, here's a Ramones T shirt, from margauxbigballa, a name that somehow amuses me, on ebay. Can't vouch for the vintagicity of it, but it fits the mood. And while you're in the mood for some Ramones, take this quiz, to see which Ramones song fits you the best. For me, it ended up being "The KKK took My Baby Away." Oddly amusing, as usual, when it comes to The Ramones.

Revenge of the Duck

DS13 and I went to Holcomb Gardens today, and walked along the canal. It's become our spring routine to do this on Monday afternoons. He plays in a drumming group that meets nearby, so we go a little early and take a walk, looking for turtles.

We went two weeks ago, and it was fun looking to see just how many little turtles will fit on one small log. We saw as many as eight of those little buggers, laying in the sun, tanning their shells. DS, being a boy, had to toss rocks in their general direction, which of course caused them to bail off into the water and disappear. I'll bet we saw thirty turtles, from tiny to pretty good sized.

Hubby took ds last week, and they tried to see them again. They didn't see one single turtle. The day was gray, so I guess they were hiding.

Today, we went and saw the high ropes course along the canal -- crazy stuff, those high ropes courses, and there's no way on God's green earth that I would EVER try it. It wasn't open anyway, so we checked it out, then went on our turtle excursion. We were walking along, when what do we see but five turtles on a log.

With a duck.

Yep, there was a mallard perched up on that log with them, in the exact same position as the others, lined up like he had a shell. But he was a duck. His compadre was swimming nearby, giving him the duck eye, so as to say "dude, you are a BIRD. Get off the log before someone sees you." Which, of course, he was happy to do, when ds launched a rock in that general direction.

It's kind of like blowing out birthday candles -- he throws a rock, then watches to see how many bail out. In this case, the duck and four turtles bailed, leaving one old turtle looking at us like "you are idiots. Go away. I'm working on my tan, and I'm not getting up." I had to laugh at the duck, because it reminded me of the time when ds was younger, when we went to the cemetery to feed the ducks (yeah, we hang out with the dead), and ds came up to me wailing "that duck bit my butt!" He was offended, even though there was no possible way that he could've felt the wrath of the duck through his diaper. So maybe that rock toss today was his revenge on the duck population.

Good times, these are. Simple times with the boy, just enjoying the outside, and one of his favorite things. Next week, he wants to take an old bowling ball, because the road down to the canal is curvy, and has a drainage trough running beside it. He wants to launch the bowling ball down the hill and watch it roll into the pond at the bottom. This is the stuff that boys are made of.

And so, in honor of Speedy the turtle, ds's favorite stuffed buddy from his younger years, here's a cute turtle print vintage dress, from Retrochic Vintage, on the bay. Cute model, too. Just please don't throw anything at her.

I'm lookin' at you, Miss

Hubby's watching Last of the Mohicans again. For the bazillionth time. The man watches it anytime he comes across it -- and he's NOT someone who likes to watch movies more than once. Not so with this one.

I've never seen the entire thing, cause it has violence, and I don't watch movies with violence often. I've seen most of it, but get up and go make popcorn when the going gets rough. But I will say -- this movie rates right up there with Gladiator for movies with beautiful scores. I have Promontory on the MP3 player on my phone. It's absolutely beautiful.

The movie itself got a bad rap, being accused of being made for the MTV generation. It has Daniel Day Lewis, for heavens' sake, and that man is brilliant. And I would say that he's kind of hot in this movie, but he reminds me of my older brother in it, so that'd be wrong, so I won't. But a good friend of mine dissolves every time you even bring up the movie, because of his hotness. Hubby, however, loves it for the theme of honor in the face of difficulty, but even he bought the soundtrack at Goodwill once, when he found it on cassette for 99 cents.

And it has some great lines, like Madeline Stowe saying "what are you looking at," and the priceless reply "I'm lookin' at you, miss." ::sigh:: Hubby can quote passages of the movie verbatim and always says "this is back when men were men." With a musket loader on each hip. Oye.

But the music is great, and the theme is nice. And Magua is one bad ass mo fo, and definitely worth a watch, if you don't mind watching him eviscerate several people along the way. And if you'd rather just dress the part, grab this Vintage Fringed Suede jacket, from crappie0_1, on the bay.

The Manifesto

The dd is petsitting. She's turning this into a regular business, with a couple of regular customers already. She loves animals in a way that is insane, but hey, if you can make money off of what you love, why not?

These people are, however, first time customers. And probably last time. When the lady called to discuss the dates, she kept dd on the phone for almost two hours. I know that teenaged girls love to talk on the phone, but not to old ladies who yammer on about their husbands. She finally got off the phone after setting up a date to go meet the diabetic cat she'd be watching.

DH took her down to meet the cat, and spent another hour or two listening to her yammer. They mentioned that the cat was sick, but they'd still need her to watch the two dogs, even if the cat croaked. Which it did. But this didn't stop the lady of the house from giving dd a six page manifesto of the requirements of the job.

Included in said document were about a gazillion details, including:

You can talk to the neighbors to the north, but not to the ones who live to the south. We don't like them.

You may read the newspaper, as long as you put it back together properly, and leave it neatly folded on the table.

Don't turn the Sleep Number bed down past 35, because it's annoying to wait for it to inflate again, after it's down that low.

If you want to brush your hair in the bathroom, put a towel down on the counter, so it doesn't get hair on it.

If you want to use hairspray, get in the shower, so it doesn't get on the tile or marble, and only spray hairspray in the extra bathroom, not the main one.

Don't turn the stove up past Medium, and don't use the oven at all.

You may eat the fruit, ice cream, milk, or Coke. You may not have the coffee, candy, or anything that needs to be cooked.

You are to stay at the house the entire time we are gone. You may not have friend over. The room with the computer in it will be locked. (They also locked the garage, so she can't see what crashed in there during the earthquake this morning.)

Her friend read the manifesto and said "welcome to Hell."

Then she had to have another two hour meeting with the lady of the house, so that she could show her how to use the alarm (which took five minutes) and show her the miniscule details that she'd already outlined in the manifesto. Hubby calls me on my cell in the middle of this meeting and says "what do you think of that house? They have a lotta crap, don't they?" Like I can answer, with this lady prattling on about how the cat vomited on the vintage wedding dress in her sitting room, including what said vomit looked like. It was a special moment.

The dear girl is definitely earning her pay this time -- and is promptly jacking up her rates, to show her displeasure at being asked to imprison herself there again, for twelve days, next month. Nevermore, sayeth the raven haired one.

At least the dogs seem nice. And her dog seems to be dealing with her absence fairly well, despite his normal separation anxiety, and an earthquake to boot. And so, in honor of my bratty gurl, and the cajones it takes to deal with crazy old ladies, here's a cool hunting themed novelty print skirt, from my favorite seller here locally, cause she named her store after me: Old & Beautiful.

Rockin' and Rollin'

First, let me say that after I talked about uniforms the last time, I was pointed to this fabulous mod website, which is full of uber cool styles of the 60s and early 70s. I love mod stuff, but was too young to wear it -- and Mommy wouldn't have let me, though I did have a pair of white gogo boots that I loved. I was drawn, however to the Pierre Cardin nurse uniforms from 1970, which are an odd mix of That Girl meets The Flying Nun. Scroll down to see it on the page, because I can't steal the pic and post it here. Crazy stuff, pointed out to me by Chichi Chambers, on Babylon Mall. The dress shown here is vintage Pierre Cardin as well, interestingly constructed, but just as un-workable for me during the shift. I still like it, and it's from chez secondlooks, on ebay.

On to my day. I got to work and found out that we'd had an earthquake during the night. Between bad sleep and a pinhead sized bladder, I had been up every hour already, so when the Big One hit at 5:20am, I was fast asleep and missed all the action. Even the stinkin' dogs didn't wake up. I miss all the good stuff.

So I got an email from ds18, who is at school, about 35 miles from the epicenter -- if that's what you call it in Indiana. The email is entitled "what the holy shit." Yep, that's my kid. He proceeds to tell me that he had woke up to a crash (probably when someone's TV fell off the stand, as it did around the dorm), got evacuated for about an hour at 5:20am -- when I guess you find out who sleeps in what at the university -- and was mad as all get out that he hadn't gotten to go back to bed before he had a meeting with his advisor, then class. Life is hard when you're 18.

Ends his diatribe against the forces of earth by saying that he'd spent an hour and a half last night on wikipedia, reading about mass extinction. Nothing like a little light reading, I guess. As a result, when the kid woke up to The Wave, he said the first thing he thought was "man, I brought some bad ass luck to Vincennes," proving once again, that 18yo males are fairly certain that they control the earth.

Dress Code

We have very little dress code at work. Since we work after hours, and on the phone, my boss used to joke that it was ok to wear anything but pajamas, as long as we wore hosiery underneath it.

That was before one of the operators showed up in her jammies. Well, specifically, pajama bottoms, but still, they were sleepwear. Since then, I believe that virtually anything goes on their side of the call center. The nurses, however, are still not supposed to wear denim during the day, except on Fridays and weekends.

All of those billboards and commercials showing the nurse line nurse talking to you in starched whites, and maybe even with a cap on her head? They are all a lie. It's much more likely that she's sitting back in her chair with a Mountain Dew and some chocolate or a bonbon, wearing a pair of jeans, whilst her feet are propped up on the desk. Of course, some of us may have BARE feet propped up on the desk, since one of my co-workers ditches the shoes the minute she gets there. One girl sits wrapped in a blanket all day, because it can get pretty cold in there. The home agents are probably in jammies and bunny slippers.

Most of us probably don't even know where our nursing caps are. I think mine is in the attic somewhere. I lost my nursing pin within a few months of graduation, when it went down the laundry chute attached to my scrub top. I don't think I've worn white hose since clinicals, when we were sentenced to pink and white pinafore dresses, white hose, and white shoes -- no tennis shoes. I remember getting those stinkin' pinafores, and that the laundromat got a big black stain in the middle of one of my two uniforms very early on in school. Since those uniforms were so expensive, I took some white nail polish and painted over it as best I could, and made it through the rest of nursing school like that.

Hubby, on the other hand, wore plain white pants and button front shirt when he went through nursing school. I tried to convince him that he really needed to get a nursing cap, so we could put them on the shelf next to each other, but he thought I was nuts and didn't ask for one. He most certainly didn't have to wear pink.

So my sweet revenge for the pink is that I wear jeans to work every day now, with either my "Rehab is for Quitters" or my "If you aren't appalled, you aren't paying attention" shirt. And sometimes I don't even wear hosiery.

But for something really special to wear, take a look at this gorgeous gold rayon evening dress, from Alley Cats Vintage, on Main Street. Imagine me wearing that whilst taking calls, with one of those glamorous old phones, and boudoir slippers with marabou trim. Of course, if it was me, I'd be chatting about vomiting or diarrhea, but I could wiggle my slipper off my foot while my feet were on the desk, and it'd sure look good with the bonbons.

All I Need is the Air That I Breathe

Let me just say - asthma sucks.

I got diagnosed with asthma about a year ago, but didn't get the full brunt of it till this year, when I had allergy testing and found that I am, as the doctor said, "allergic to about everything known to man." Great.

Allergies to dogs, cats, trees, molds, dust -- great for someone living in an 80 yo house with two dogs, two cats, several flower beds, tons of mature trees, a basement...you name it. This results in me sucking on inhalers at least every four hours a day, and coughing in between. And with the prednisone I'm on, I should be looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Oye.

So, what does one do, when one can't breathe right? Watch Dancing with the Stars, of course. I figure if I watch it long enough, I'll start looking like Edyta Sliwinska. Heck, I live with a Polish guy, so doesn't that count for something? It's a fun show to watch, and there are some hotties too. Some freaky looking people too - like Priscilla Plastic. I mean Presley, but who knows? The woman used to be beautiful, and now doesn't look like a real person - but still moves pretty well. However, no one will ever be better than Joey Fatone. His samba to Erasure's "Respect" with Kym is a video that I watch when I need cheered up. It just makes me smile.


Now, there is no way that I'd be breathing at the end of it, but hey, it's fun. And if you're in the mood for ballroom, try this vintage 50s petal bust prom dress, from my girl Jen, of MORE-of-Macojeros-Sewing-Patterns, on ebay, and momspatterns.com on the net. Too cool -- pink, strapless, and ready to wear. And those cateye glasses remind me of my mommy, when I was a kid. I'd wear it with pearls, and a decolletage inhaler tucked away.

Things that make you go thump

So, my college kid came home this weekend. Was gonna catch a ride with the track team, but there wasn't room on the bus. Tried to get me to go get him, so he didn't have to ride with "the most boring guy on the planet." Wow. I'm not the most boring person on the planet. But, my asthma intervened after a lot of cleaning, so he ended up with Boring Guy, who dropped him off at Gray's Cafeteria. Walked in with his roommate's big bag 'o laundry and his backpack.
Cause that's how college boys roll.

So, he tells me that the roommate, and maybe another guy, are coming for the night, after they get done with the track meet. Okey dokey. Our house may not always be particularly clean, but you're welcome to come by anytime. And teenaged boys are amusing. So, ds18 goes to pick up the roomie, and comes home with THREE teenaged guys. Oye. Had to do some scrambling to get the guest (aka dog's) room set up, take down the tent in ds's room, that was constructed of two twin mattresses, and figure out where everyone was gonna hang.

I go upstairs, and there is ds18, on his laptop, next to his buddy Clint, who, amazingly, is sober for once, then ds13, and dd. The three of them are playing on the Wii, and ds18 is sitting there, trying to figure out his wireless connection. Roomie is on the futon, talking to his woman on his cell phone, and extra guy is on dd's computer.

I ask ds, "do you know where they (waving arm around the room) are all sleeping?" He shrugs and says "I think that a couple are sleeping downstairs, and the Clint is sleeping in here." DD, without looking up from the game, says "no, we have it all arranged. They're sleeping in my room."

Mother almost passes out. Brother's jaw drops. Buddy's eyes bug out of his head, and he just starts emphatically shaking his head no no no. I swoon and say "WHAT?" DD replies, without looking at me, but with a fair amount of frustration, "we already figured it out. You don't have to worry about it. They're coming in my room."

DS is now cracking up, and I am lightheaded. DD finally looks up with her gorgeous blue eyes and says "what?" Clint, who has knocked himself out of the game in fear, says "no, I'm sleeping in here" cause he's getting the fish eye from the mother of the house. DS13, eternally blonde, says "I don't get the big deal."

Oy and vay.

An hour later, dd comes downstairs and asks what the heck she said that was so funny. I have regained my senses now, and explain the complexity of trying to explain to her father, the plan of having half of the Vincennes University track team spend the night in her room, and how he may never recover from the shock. The big blue eyes are round as saucers when she realized her faux pas, then the attitude comes in and she says, like only a teenaged girl can say, "Mooooooom. That is disgusting."

And walks away. They all end up going to bed early, and the only person in the wrong bed is our big dog Timmy, who climbed in HIS bed -- with two 6 foot 3 track guys, who, amazingly, moved over and made room. If you knew my dog, you'd know why. To know him is to love him, even if you're a straight dude sharing a bed with another straight dude, in some weird people's house. Cause if you are here, you just roll with whatever happens.

Unless someone wants to go near the dd. THEN they have to deal with the father, and the two brothers whilst stepping over the mother's limp body on the floor. But alas, the days of dating are coming fast and furious, the boys came back tonight, minus one, and now are out trolling for women at a volleyball tournament. The Age of Innocence is rapidly disappearing.

So here's to my babies, who aren't such babies anymore, but who will answer to Baby till my dying day. With the exception of the Bratty Gurl, who will be known as that forever. And to celebrate their baby-ness, here's a great Dan Folgelberg shirt, from Kix Designs T-Shirts Memorabilia, on the bay. RIP Dan Fogelberg and long live the college boys.

The plural of marriage = who's on first?

I don't get all this talk about polygamy. Who in the world would want more than one spouse? I mean really. You'd never have a moment's peace. You would always be doing laundry. You'd always be giving a backrub. You'd never find the remote, cause he'd probably wander to the next house with it. Really. Think about it.

With one spouse, you can figure out their quirks and take advantage of them. My husband has funny feet with talons of toenails. I know that when we lie down in bed at night, I must avoid those feet at all costs, or I could end up with stitches. My husband likes tabasco sauce or sour cream on just about everything. If he had eight wives, would he take the sour cream with him when he went to the other wives' house, or would it just go bad before he got back? And would all the wives know that when he starts turning the TV up too loudly that it's time to irrigate his ears? If I was one of eight wives, would he know that when I put the peanut butter in the refrigerator, it means I'm pregnant? Would he know that the best remedy for a bad day is to go and get my hair cut? Heck, would he even remember everyone's names? My guy never remembers names. He gets the faces and I supply the names.

Mom's night out, in the case of a polygamist, could spell disaster, as dozens of children are left in the care of one man. Who would survive? I say it's a tossup. I couldn't leave my hubby with two kids without coming home and finding one giggling whilst the other was climbing out of the dryer, whilst hubby was asleep in the recliner, with mascara all over his face. Oh, but he "wasn't asleep." Riiiiiight. Survival of the fittest doesn't even begin to describe what would happen if the girls went out for dinner, leaving Daddy with 40-some children.

And hey, if you're gonna be a sister-wife, then don't you want to dress up pretty so maybe you don't get lost in the crowd? Why is it that all of the polygamists' wives always dress so fugly? Is there a fugly law in plural marriage? OK, so you want to dress in long dresses, that's fine. But at least get something nice, like this vintage calico Gunne Sax dress, from kcfairy, on ebay. She's got a whole bevy of polygamy-wear. So for heaven's sake, stay single (great choice), stay with one guy (not bad, in the right circumstances), or dress pretty (always a good choice, especially if it's vintage).

The Waterless Closet

Our youngest had a propensity for wandering off when we'd go out. Hubby didn't want to buy a leash for him, but if ever a kid needed one, it was this kid. He'd get lost in a closet.

Indianapolis has the best children's museum in the nation. No joke, it's usually ranked #1. Who'd of thunk that in the middle of Indianapolis, we'd have anything worth seeing, but it's true. The water clock alone will stop you in your tracks to stare. The ds13 got lost there more than once when he was little. Oye.

Took them there once to go to this Lego exhibit that they had. It was based on the ocean, so how could it be bad? The ocean was the oldest kid's favorite thing, with his aspirations of becoming a marine biologist. DD loved anything with animals in it, so hey, we were in good shape. Lugged them off to the museum, got them all busy working on something, turned and walked three feet to sit on a bench. And the kid was gone. GONE.

I looked everywhere for him in that room, and when I didn't see him, went out the door with the other two kids, looked around, then looked over the railing, and there was a volunteer, rolling him up to the Information desk in a wagon. His brother yelled down to him, and the 3yo genius looks up at me accusingly and yells "you got lost." He was offended. Oye.

So we took him to a friend's Labor Day party later that year and you guessed it, we lost him again. There were at least 50 people there, at least half of whom were kids, playing on the fort, the swingset, with the bikes, etc. I went in to get food and poof! He was gone again. We looked everywhere, and even the adults who didn't know this kid were getting worried when someone said "has anyone looked in the pool next door?"

I almost died.

I had no idea that there was a pool there, and we shot through the bushes to look. I thought I would vomit. And there he was in the pool. At the bottom. Playing in the leaves, cause the pool was empty. I read the kid the riot act for the whole walk over to the party, when he suddenly looked at me and said, quite sternly, "MOM. What am I gonna do about my POOP?" What in the world? "What are you talking about," I said, and almost died when he replied very seriously "Mooooooooo-m. I put my poop in that pool." I just looked at hubby, who said "what am I supposed to do about it?" and I gave him the look that only a wife can give, that says "I'm dealing with the kid, you go see if he's really done it."

To this day I have no idea what he did with that little deposit there, but now his best friend's brother lives in that house. I don't think I could ever swim in that pool now. Oh well, at least we knew that there were no Poop Monsters there.

So summer is coming, and if you want something to distract them from the goings on poolside, check out this Vintage 50s Mabs Swimsuit, from Glamoursurf. Water not required.

Knock and the door won't open

We're pet sitting right now, so we have three dogs in the house. My big dog Timmy, aka Big Butt, dd's neurotic canine Boo, aka Butthead, and our neighbor's dog Colin who, because his owner is Scottish, will only come when you call him with a brogue.

He is, as she says, "a wee dumdum," or, as we say, as dumb as a rock.

So, I got up a couple of days ago, and had six pairs of eyes staring me down, waiting to go out. Hubby has four legged creatures only against his will, so he doesn't let them out, and they know not to bother trying. So they wait for me. Indiana being Indiana, and perimenopause being perimenopause, I had gone to bed in a cotton nightgown, only to be met with blustery cold the next morning when I walked them out to the corral. Sat there freezing myself to death, waiting for Timmy to go. His speeds are Slow and Stop. Waiting for Boo, who goes nuts every time he sees a bird. It's spring, so there was a lotta craziness going on, and not much pottying. Colin, thank God, is a good boy who gets to the point, then goes to the door.

I finally gather them up, and head to the door with the herd, only to find that the screen door is stuck, and I can't get it open. And I'm stuck outside in my cotton nightgown. In about 35 degrees. DS was up, but upstairs, and wouldn't hear me if I was standing right next to him, cause he's rather blonde. So here I am, thinking what the heck am I gonna do, cause I can't get in, and we don't have a doorbell. And the neighbors are definitely out of the question, between the nightgown and the three dogs -- I'm not sure which would scare them more.

I finally remember that, despite our robbery of last year, hubby never seems to remember to lock the doors. Maybe the front door is open, but I'm gonna have to go around front with three dogs, two of whom will take off like lightening if anything moves. Did I mention that I'm in my nightgown? I grab Butthead by the scruff of the neck, give Big Butt the look, and yell "Cullen" in the best half-awake-but- freezing-to-death Scottish brogue I can muster, and head up front. Had to dodge the porch swing, which hubby had just put down the day before, at my request. Kept yelling at the mutts, asking if they wanted a treat, and hoping the neighbors weren't looking. Oh, and praying that the door was open, cause I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't.

Thank God for forgetful husbands, cause the door was indeed open and I finally got in, with only a little frostbite in strange places, but with all three dogs intact.
Then I went and taped the defective part of the back screen door down, so it won't happen again.

And set out my flannel jammies for the night.

Can you imagine if I'd been in this
marabou peignoir. Kinda like Zsa Zsa meets Queen Elizabeth, with my pack of mutts (ok, so Colin is a champion Westie, but you get my drift). It would at least keep my neck warm, and I'd look good. Maybe a little overdressed for my hood, but it's beautiful nonetheless, and since most of my neighbors are gay guys, they'd think I looked great. And maybe ask to borrow it too, I don't know. It's from the store named after me, Old & Beautiful, at Main Street Vintage.