Another Saturday night

Well folks, it's Saturday night. I'd hum "another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody," but the old guy is sitting right here next to me. But I did just get paid, so I guess that's my homage to Sam Cooke.

Hubby is reading tomorrow's paper, which is an oddity for two reasons: he actually reads the daily paper, AND it's tomorrow's paper. In Indianapolis, you actually get most of the Sunday paper on Saturday night. I guess that means tomorrow is back to the future. In either event, I don't read the paper every day, because by the time it goes to print, I've already read most of it online, so why bother? I do like to read Ann Landers, or whatever she's called, mostly because it amuses me, and also because I actually was printed there once, in a rant response to some guys' complaint about not being allowed in the delivery room for his granddaughter's birth. Yuck.

So here we are, on Saturday night. Hubby just got done installing window air conditioners in our room and the dd's, cause her room is hotter than Hades in summer, and our central A/C has an appointment with Dr. Kevorkian. DS13 is in his room, of course, playing zombie games with his best buddy -- our weekend foster child. DS18 is upstairs, having come downstairs to a) help his dad with the air conditioners and b) show me some disgusting glob of earwax he pulled out of his ear.

Exciting place, Utter Chaos.

DD is out with her BFF, who came over to make plans for their upcoming trip to Victoria next week. Alas, no planning is in progress, as they went to the barn to see her horse. Hubby, the fretter, laments the fact that it is 9:30, and she is not home. Oye. I don't know what he'd do if our kids actually decided to go out every weekend like we did, when we were kids. He'd probably have a stroke. He sits and frets till the minute they walk in the door. The worst was the night that ds18 went to McDonald's with his track buddies from school -- they walked in at 11, which was about the time his father was going to put out an APB.

You have nothing to fear, but that your children will do the things you did yourself, is probably the hubby's motto.

But they seem to have their heads on straight, so I don't worry. DS18 made Dean's List at school last semester, as did dd17, so hey, they must be doing something right. It's not like the dd goes out dressed in something like this gold 80s mermaid dress, from Monster Vintage, on the net. She's actually wearing a Purdue T shirt and shorts, and is probably covered in horse manure from the ankles down. Not exactly Amish, but not too trendsetting, either. Perhaps a better choice would be this uber cool Moorman's Dairy Shirt, from a store named after my own heart -- Kiss My Vintage.It's perfect for a day at the barn, or an evening chasing hotties. Why by the cow? Cause you can get the Moorman for free! Just beware -- the dd's father may be lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first sign of a guy.
If you can get the newspaper out of his hands.

Put the Machete Away

I don't always get a chance to read the paper, but I try to. I'm not sure why, because I've usually read the morning news online the night before, but the paper can still be informative, especially about local news.

Take the article I read this morning. The author had gone to visit the City-County building here in Indianapolis. In order to get into the building, you have to pass security, which entails putting your stuff through the metal detector, among other things. The security guard had the audacity to confiscate said author's Sharpie marker. I'm not sure when Sharpie's became a threat to local government, but the incident caused him to go online, to see what you can and can't take the the City-County building.

It's quite a list. I mean, after all, when you get downtown and find that you've forgotten to leave your saber in the car, what are you going to do? And I guess that butchers can't go straight to jury duty from work, because they're not going to let you in with your favorite meat cleaver. And if Indianapolis is the sporting capital of the world, the local government must not know, because there is a whole bevy of sporting goods that you can't take in.

I'd say that the hubby is out of luck, cause you sure can't take spray paint, but he can make it up by taking a water gun. The guy likes to take a water pistol everywhere he goes, squirting people randomly from across the room, so he's in luck, as long as it's not a realistic looking gun. Do they make real purple guns?

If you notice, however, there are a few things missing off the list. Machetes, for example. Guess I could get in with that. Paper. I guess they don't realize the danger of a paper cut. Can't take my bow and arrows, but I guess I could take a slingshot. That could be fun.

How does the jury find? DOINK! Right in the kisser.

Our government actually spent tax dollars telling us that we can't take a flare gun to court, so we should spend next year coming up with a list of fun things they left out, then show up with them, just to see what happens. It could be interesting. And if you want to dress as innocently as possible, to try to get past the gate, try this sexy secretary dress from Damn Good Vintage. That cute cross-my-heart-officer-I-wasn't-going-to-hurt-anyone-with-my-Sharpie tie in front seals the deal. I'm just not sure if that metal zipper would set off the metal detector.

The Jaws of Life

So there I am at work last week, innocently checking billing, doing the call schedules, merging duplicates, and in general just going about my day, when some dude calls me and says he has a worm.

In his head. And he can hear it crunching by his right ear, whilst it is eating his brain. And when it moves, it wraps around his right ankle. And it burns. Apparently, even the jaws of life can't get it loose from his ankle. But mostly, the crunching in his ear is driving him nuts.

Short drive, I'm thinking.

Dude's been to ER twice, and they have said that he's nuts. Imagine! He's mad, cause they haven't fixed the worm situation yet. Once it crawls in, it doesn't crawl out, I guess. And his friend is yelling in the background that someone needs to do something before it eats his whole brain.

I'm really thinking that that might not be so much of a problem, really. Heck, that worm probably has enough space to rent out a room for his buddies. Oye.

And so, if the early bird gets the worm, what's the early worm get? This fab Catalina Dirty Bird swimsuit, from Dorothea's Closet Vintage. Check it out closely, and you'll see why they are dirty birds -- crazy, considering it's a 50s suit. Not exactly what June Cleaver would wear, but it'd go great with the worm poking out of your right ear.

My own private stalker

Walker Research is big, here in Indianapolis. They're always looking for people to do studies, for one reason or another. Some years back, we submitted our name as possible candidates, so they call us from time to time, to see if we fit their criteria.

The only time I ever did one is when they put me in a room with a bunch of soccer moms, in a study about different holiday themed zip lock bags. Yeah, me. The one who works most holidays and who, for the first ten years of our marriage, went out for Chinese for Christmas dinner. I was looking at zip lock bags with bunnies and Christmas trees. Those soccer moms made me ill.

So they called the other night, looking for the hub. He'd already left for the hardware store, so she decided to ask me the questions. Turned out that I qualified for the study, which deals with human behavior. They are going to come and watch what I do throughout the course of a 14 hour day. Two different days. They're gonna pay me -- good money -- to follow me around and actually document Utter Chaos.

Boy oh boy, are they gonna be surprised.

Hubby would be much more interesting to watch, but if they want "normal" human behavior, I suppose they'd be better off watching me. Of course, they are coming on Thursday, so they're gonna get a big old dose of me, listing sewing patterns, and the season finale of Lost. They'll probably do a lot of writing down about how this nutty chick spends her days with patterns that she never intends to sew, then watches a show that has no answers. Then watches it again, in slow motion.

I hope they bring their own car, cause all those thousands of sewing patterns are still in my van. Only two people can fit in my van at any given time, till I get some listed.

I'll have to think of something freaky to do, while my stalker is here. Not sure what it's going to be, but she'll probably fall asleep of boredom unless something perks up around here. Here's what it'll say: "scanned pattern. scanned another pattern. scanned another pattern." Like the shampoo commercial said "and so on and so on, and so on......" Then, "listed pattern. listed another pattern. listed another pattern." And so on and so on and so on. After about eight hours of listing, and CNN: "watched odd show with island people where everyone is good but maybe they are bad, but they are all hot, then someone starts shooting, and things blow up and maybe the Korean dies, but he probably is sent to another plane of existence, and the hotty stays on the island after he kisses his woman goodbye when she goes off to live with another man and the baby leaves but the mother stays behind because she might be dead but she can't be because she is the only one who can raise him......." And so on and so on and so on.

So if you have good ideas of how I can enhance the experience for this poor woman, lest she perish of boredom, let me know, cause I'm definitely not the Suzy homemaker type. I'm much more likely to be in my "nothing listed, nothing gained" ebay shirt and some beaten up shorts than in something gorgeous like this pink linen and lace girlie girl dress, from Vintage Grace. She's currently touring the continent, but you can get it when she gets back. Me? I'll be listing patterns, while my stalker takes notes.

25 years and counting

On May 20th, I have officially been a nurse for 25 years. And we've lived in our house for 16 years. But it's the 25 years that blows my mind.

Things I have learned in 25 years:

If someone tells you if you don't let them out of bed, they're gonna die -- let them out of bed. I had someone tell me that one time, and he was dead 20 minutes later. After all the dust settled, the doc running the code shrugged and said "you shoulda let him outta bed."

If an alcoholic in DTs goes wild looking for an ashtray, stand back, cause he's gonna blow. I learned this the hard way.

With regard to orifices (orifix? orifi?): what goes up doesn't necessarily go out, so don't go there.

Someone always dies on Christmas Eve. Deaths on Christmas Eve are doubly sad.

No boyfriend or baby daddy is ever in jail. He is "currently incarcerated."

Weekends and holidays really aren't that important, if you enjoy the rest of the year with your little family.

Hospital food still sucks. Although the best hospital food I ever had was a brief stint working at Florida Hospital, in Orlando -- a Seventh Day Adventist hospital that only served vegetarian food.

When a woman says the baby's coming, she ain't lying. I was one of those women.

Never give someone a bath if they are teetering on the brink. It's the quickest way to send 'em to meet Jesus.

The morgue is always the creepiest place in the hospital.

If you live through a July hospitalization in a teaching hospital, thank your nurse, cause she probably saved you from certain death at the hand of the new residents.

If your doctor plays his own mix tapes during your surgery, request that it not include Garth Brooks singing "If Tomorrow Never Comes."

Never underestimate the power of Mountain Dew, especially at 4 a.m.

Sleep is optional.

At some point in her career, all nurses will walk in on a couple expressing their affections in ways that inappropriate to a hospital setting. There's a reason it's called bed REST.

Never, ever do anything that any of your drunk friends dare you to do, especially if you are drunk yourself. Don't visit anyone drunk. You know what? Don't drink, period. It just gives us too much material to work with.

Nursing is still the best profession out there, if you go into it for the right reasons. If you go into it for the wrong reasons, give up hope, all ye who enter.

And so I went looking for something pretty, and celebratory, for my special day. I found this 40s Draped beaded dress, from Retro Glamour, on ebay. It's sure to cure what ails you.

3.999 patterns

Remember my trip to Michiganthe other day? Bought 4,000 patterns. That's something like 25 egg boxes, stuffed full 'o patterns. That's a LOT of patterns.

They're still in my van. Everytime Seth climbs in, he says they smell like hay. Don't ask me why. The boy has always had a really sensitive nose, as opposed to my very challenged olfactory nerve, but if he says it smells like hay, it probably does. He smells everything. Come to think of it, he came to visit me at work on Friday, and told me that it smelled like Jello near where the operators sit. I didn't smell a thing, but someone probably had something Jello-y, cause the boy's nose doesn't miss much.

So, Thomas took 3 boxes 'o patterns out of my car and put them into the garage. I took one out, and got 'em listed. Make hay while the sun shines, and all that. But there are still 20+ boxes still in my car.

So I drove to work on Friday morning, and had the bright idea that perhaps I would try to type up a few listings on company time, if I had a chance. Pulled in the parking lot, pulled out a plastic bag, and started stuffing some formal patterns into it. Took me a while, because I was trying to just get one style at a time, instead of filling the bag with all the same pattern. That would defeat my purpose.

I glanced up, and some total stranger is standing on the front driver's side, in front of the car, staring at me. I thought maybe she was waiting for someone, so I brushed it off, and kept sorting. Looked up and there she was again. Kinda weird. I checked to see if I had hit her car, parked too close, or what. Nothing. Lady keeps staring at me. I finally got out to go in the building, and this lady comes up and says "I see you have some patterns in your car. You must sew."

I'm not sure which one shocked her more -- me telling her that no, I don't sew, or that I had 4,000 patterns in that car. If I'd slapped her on the back, her eyes would've flown across the parking lot. I corrected myself to say that I don't sew anymore, that I could do some very basic sewing, but can't get into it right now that I have 4,000 patterns, just in my car alone. That doesn't count the bazillion at the house. She was blown away.

That lady had no idea that she was gonna walk into work today with a true pattern junkie, but I think I gave her a smile before her first cup 'o joe. Good thing, cause the hub won't be smiling when he sees all those patterns still in my car. Oh well, they are a thing of loveliness, like this fabulous draped deco blouse pattern, from my store. I wish I had 4,000 more like it, cause it is one glamorous pattern. And it's not in my car.

An ode to comfort food

We all know that the hubby and I have three kids, give or take. I say give or take, because on a given day, we could have as many as three or four more. Our door is pretty much open, as long as you don't expect fine cuisine, you don't show up with anything illegal, and you follow our minimal rules, which are basically designed to keep people from killing each other, and not necessarily a lot more.

Thomas' buddy, aka Potter aka Poots, spent virtually every weekend at our house for about five years, before he went to college at Regis, in Denver, last fall. I still think that he went to Regis to score points with the hubby, who is a big ole Broncos fan, but who knows? I just know that we sheltered him, supplied some food, and tolerated a LOT of caffeine and sugar over the years, just so the boy could get it outta his system.

When he left, Seth's buddy took his place. Just about every weekend, he's here. Unlike Potter, he doesn't bring a computer, or furniture. He just shows up. Good thing is, he'll do anything I ask him to do: take out the trash, do the dishes, anything, just so he can come over and play WoW or City of Heroes, or whatever the weekend's game is. Heck, he'll even go see a chick flick if the dd wants company. He just wants to hang out.

So, next month, we get new guests: The Ugandan Orphans Choir. Yep, word's gotten 'round the world now, and our visitor's list is going international. We'll be hosting three or four kids, and an adult chaperone, for a couple of nights next month, when they are performing at our church. Hope they know about Utter Chaos, but if not, they're gonna learn.

They come with a full set of instructions, for everything from how they do their laundry (don't be surprised to find them doing it in the bathtub or sink), to how they sleep (3-4 to a bed). I didn't expect them to accept us, because of our zoo (two dogs, two cats, and a guinea pig), but here we are, so I guess I'd better study the rules. There are several pages.

The one thing that blows my mind, and I cannot comprehend at all, is the diet. There's a list of what they do eat (burgers, dogs) and what they don't eat. Yogurt isn't surprising, because a lot of people don't like yogurt, but macaroni and cheese? What in the world?

Frankly, that's sacrilege.

Mac and cheese is the true comfort food. I don't care if it's made by Kraft, or made at a four star restaurant, mac and cheese is like therapy. It's yummy. It's basically one of the four food groups. Why in the world would these little kids not eat it?

I find it very disturbing.

It's not a dairy issue, because milk is ok, as is cheese. I doubt it's pasta, because I think spaghetti was on the list. So why not macaroni and cheese? Someone please tell me, because it really is bothering me. Wash your clothes in my bathtub, keep quiet during dinner, but man, it's just wrong to not eat macaroni and cheese.

Someone 'splain it to me, cause seriously, I don't understand. And if shopping is your therapy, grab this ethnic kitty wooden necklace, from Purse Diva Vintage, on Main Street Mall Online. Yummy!

The minion has spoken

I have been properly put into my place by the dd. Her comment in response to yesterday's post was that "Thomas gets all the attention," so, as penance, I told her I would devote an entire post to her awesomeness. Cause that's how I roll. Lest I get rolled over.

She's still a fairly new driver, you know. Unlike me, she didn't roll over two bikes and a radio in her first year of pulling out of our driveway. That's because she's awesome. Not because I had anything to do with teaching her to drive, because a) I had my eyes closed in prayer most of the time cause I hate being a passenger and b) everyone knows I can't go in reverse, much less teach how to do it. It's kind of a legend around here. That, and my lack of parallel parking skills which, I might also say, Jill rocks at. She didn't get that from me.

Anyway, I was truly remiss in mentioning that the French dinner was her thought, and the boys were likely dragged into it unwillingly (and perhaps with a threat or two), but hey, she rallied the team, and rallied them well. She's pretty darn good at that. I'd say that we could send her to the Middle East to solve all of their problems, except she wouldn't care unless there were a) animals in danger and b) hot guys there. But she'd definitely solve the problems with the animals. The hot guys would have a new problem -- her father.

DD has rare talents, too. She went through most of her first three or four years of life with change for a dollar in her mouth, and nothing was larger than a dime. Need money for a pay phone? Just had to have her open up and stick out her tongue, and there it would be, frequently with a baby wipe too. She had an odd thing for (clean) baby wipes. Not sure why, but it made her look like a cottonmouth most days. Maybe it's got something to do with why she won't eat meat now, I don't know, but to be able to walk around that percentage of time without swallowing one of those coins is just awesome. Better than her younger brother could do.

She can sing, beautifully. She actually had an animal rescue for a while, from age 10-13 or so. Adopted out about 100 cats, spayed and with their shots, all paid for by her fundraising efforts. Heck, this girl sold the crap outta Girl Scout cookies when she was in kindergarten. Batted those baby blues and said, with a lisp, "would you like to buy some Girl Thcout cookies?" Won the contest hands down. She knows how to raise money. Anyway, I digress. Some lady adopted a cat from dd. Later, she called to ask if we sang to Bessie a lot. Turned out that the cat would only come if they sang to her, cause the brat always sung when she was cleaning out cages. What song do you sing, to get a cat to come to you in the barn? Hmmmm...

Anyway, her brother feels that her singing contends with the people on American Idol, and he's right, most days. Her whistling, however is, well.........let's face it, she can't whistle. She's valiantly trying, because she knows we should never give up just because things are hard. Sounds like we have a warbler in the house, most days. Drove the animals nuts for a while, till they figured out it was the brat, sucking air in, cause she can't whistle whilst blowing out. Guess she missed that "just put your lips together and blow" thing. But she looks cute trying. She's just cute, period.

I could go on forever about her awesomeness, but why use it all in one post? Maybe I should have an appointed Jillie Day, once a week, or once a month, just to update you all on her coolness. After all, I haven't mentioned the new hair color, the new hair cut, or the new job yet. So see, it's not all about Thomas -- he's been on the Naughty List this week. Jillie, however stays on the Nice list, cause that's how she rolls.

And so, I asked Her Awesomeness what her favorite color was, and she said green -- then drove me nuts asking why I wanted to know. I never told her, but went looking for something vintage, green, and maybe as awesome as my Bratty Gurl. And what do you know, I found this Mignon dress, from Persian Room Vintage, on the bay. Ironic, because in French (like in my French dinner) means "nice." Which is what it's like, having my Pretty Girl around.

Oui Oui, Paris, and some chicken

So, now that the boy has seemed to redeem himself, let's back up a few days, and revisit Mother's Day.

Now, I have never been one to make a big deal over the little holidays, especially the Hallmark ones. Being a nurse, holidays are generally just another day, and usually another WORK day, so it's not a big deal to me. Guess I try to rationalize it that way, so I don't feel like I'm missing anything, but hey, it takes all the pressure off. When you can say "sorry, have to work," then you don't have to worry about whose house you're going to, who's hosting, how to decorate, or any of that. You just work, and maybe do something when you get off.

And Mother's Day is one of those days where I really don't think it's a big deal. I figure, if you feel reasonably appreciated most of the year, what difference does one day make? Why go out to eat when the restaurants are so crowded? We already eat out a lot anyway. Who cares? Heck, I don't even care if I get a card, really, though the year that the hub made the error of stopping at CVS and buying me a coloring book and a candy bar, it got kind of ugly. If you are going to bother getting a gift, put a LITTLE thought in it. Otherwise, I really don't care. Anything I need or want, I can buy for myself.

So, the kids decided to make me dinner for Mother's Day. Hubby took me to the antique mall for the afternoon, and when we came through the door, the dd yelled "go in your room and put on the clothes on the bed." Ok. Good thing it was cute. Put it on, came out, and there was candlelight, French music, and a sign welcoming us to Le Papillon (The Butterfly). We had a wonderful six course meal, cooked by the kids, including the ds18, who proclaimed, in his best French accent, over and over, how awesome his chicken had turned out. And he was right.

Painted on moustaches, accents, music, and a fine looking guy at the other end of the table. Doesn't get much better than that. And when we were done, we all watched Rush Hour 3 -- not the greatest flick, but hey, it takes place in Paris. Pretty cool, huh? I guess those kids might turn out ok after all. They have a little bit of humor, a little bit 'o romance, and man, can they cook!

And so, in honor of the teenagers who could, here's a great Leonard of Paris dress, from Foxy Couture Boutique, on ebay. The print is nearly as much fun as Mother's Day.

4000 patterns of Vogue in the van, 4000 patterns of Vogue

So, I went on a road trip today. After yesterday's debacle with the heir to the throne, I almost made him go with me, but I decided I wanted to have a good time, so I went alone. Drove up to Michigan, and picked up 4,000 patterns.

No lie. I have 4,000 patterns in my van. Right now. To the roof. Or to the moon, Alice, when the hubby sees 'em, but he'll get over it. Someone closing her ebay store needed to be rid of them, so I drove up to Spring Lake, Michigan -- a nice little town, if you ever get that way -- swooped into her driveway, loaded up, had a nice conversation about homeschooling, ebay, and life in general, and took off home again.

Did I mention that it was a five hour drive there? Well, really it was much longer, because I meandered -- or took the scenic route, as my father would put it. Actually, the route was only scenic because I stopped at lots of places along the way, to shop. And bought more patterns. Well, only about ten more than the 4,000 that I loaded up, but they were GOOD patterns.

Yeah, I needs me a 12 step program for patterns, but hey, this oughtta keep me out of trouble for a New York minute. And the boy too, cause he'll be the one unloading them, and if he doesn't shape up, I'll make him file the listed ones -- cause everyone here knows that NO ONE likes to file the patterns. Except me, that is, because everyone leaves me alone when I'm filing, because they are afraid I'll ask them to help.

So I drove to Michigan alone, on a beautiful blue day, and got back at almost 11pm. (Drove back a different way, somehow stopped following my number one route home, no biggie, was gonna do the alternate route, till I saw a warning that my ramp was closed, so hey -- take this route that takes you down two lane roads, through the center of Indiana's farm country, through cities like Medaryville and Francessville, where the only thing open past eight is the liquor store, till you get to the interstate, two hours later. It was pretty, though.) Thought about the boy going with, just so I could make him miserable with all the stops, and some Barry Manilow, Josh Groban and the like, and then decided, hey -- I want to have a good time. I'll just make him miserable in other ways, like calling and telling him to do the laundry and such. And making him wash the bugs off my windshielf tomorrow. Yeah. That way I win twice, or maybe even three or four times..

So now I'm home again, with clean laundry, and 4010 patterns, plus a pink tulle prom dress, an emerald green shantung dress, some Waverly fabric, a Snow White book, and another dress that I can't even remember what it looks like, but it was 5 bucks, so hey, it's a deal. Oh, and a Faith Austin Siamese cat hankie that is just too too cute. Thus ends a happy day in the life of me, on vacation, getting in touch with my inner truck driver.

And so, what makes me happy today is 50s Vogue. I just love a great 50s Vogue pattern, and although the ones I bought today are all modern -- uncut, no counting pieces -- can I get an AMEN! -- this strapless 50s prom dress is better than Prozac, to cheer your day. Granted, it's a size 32 bust -- something I haven't seen since 5th grade -- but isn't it pretty? And it's in my store. So there. I can look at it whenever I want. Till someone buys it and makes me cry. But that'll be more money to buy more patterns. YAY!

Can't work with 'em, can't kill 'em

So, the ds18 got a part time job for the summer, and maybe beyond. Working with his mother, doing data entry. Not rocket science, but the money is good, and he can do it during the school year too.

Except he blew opening day.

Had to go to get his physical last week. The one his mother harped at him to not leave till the last minute. The one his mother admonished him to be sure it was complete, because they are really picky about it, and won't let you start without it. The one where they needed his shot records by last Thursday, and when I walked in the house at 4:40p.m. on Friday, the shots records were still lying on the counter in my kitchen.

He's not doing orientation in my kitchen. Hint hint.

Drove the shots record over, but it didn't show his updated tetanus and TB test, which was done at school. The school which, at 4:55 p.m. on Friday, was now closed. So I told the kid, call them on Monday, and hopefully you can get it faxed, and there won't be problems with starting. Except, they give you a pink slip when you're cleared for your physical -- yeah, a pink slip to START your job, not end it -- and he couldn't get the pink slip without the tetanus and TB stuff, which meant he went all the way to the hospital for orientation today, and then turned around and came home.

Now, there is not much more to start a mother's ire on a Monday morning, of her vacation, no less, when she is sans two children in the house and looking forward to a quiet day of cleaning, organizing, and listing patterns, than to have a teenager who is supposed to be bored to tears in orientation at the hospital, suddenly show up on one's doorstep. There just ain't enough excuses in the world to cover that one.

I think that there was one other time where this kid made me this angry, and I was up in his face yelling at him, when the dh intervened and said to him "Damn boy, even I
know not to make her that mad. Yeah -- it ain't pretty when the mama is upset. That boy heard it all day, whilst I drove him to the bank, the grocery store, to Target (where I made him put in an application), to the appliance store (where I tried, but the applications were online), and home again. Didn't even put up a fuss when I told him to drive his brother to drumming class, because he knew he was at Defcon 5, because the next hospital orientation isn't for four weeks, because of the holiday. He may've been considering the priesthood, by the time I was done with him, just to get some peace.

But I did get the trash taken out, a clean kitchen floor, some folded laundry, and two clean cars outta the deal, before the boss -- MY boss, and now HIS boss, who could've terminated him for being stupid -- called and said she'd pulled strings and he could start on Thursday, as scheduled.

Guess I'll have to let him live. But only after I get some more socks folded, and we drive to pick up a huge lot of patterns tomorrow, listening to Barry Manilow all the way there, and stopping at every antique store from here to there, and back again. Oh yeah, he'll stop procastinating after that. Maybe.

I doubt it........

So, for those days when you can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em, here's a killer ivory wiggle dress, in Florence Nightingale's favorite color, from Teresa's Reborn Treasures. Arsenic not included.

Home Shopping Ninnies

So, I was cruising the channels yesterday, and turned on the Home Shopping Network, just because. I'm not a shopper at all -- dh is the one who loves to shop, mainly for rugs. I'm even less inclined to buy senseless garbage from some spray tanned chick with bleached teeth and a fake smile, who keeps testing the makeup on her arm till she looks like Geronimo, minus a few feathers. Creepy.

This is the first time I'd even looked at HSN for a long, long time. Some of the girls at work buy from them all the time, but I don't get it. Why don't you just go to Target? Last time I was on HSN was several years ago, when my parents were visiting. We had a big screen TV that allowed you to nickname the channels. When you turned the channel, you'd see the name you plugged in, up in the corner. Hubby nicknamed animal planet "Jill," for the dd, cause that's all she watches. Cartoon Network was named for our youngest, and other channels got random names of his choosing.

So, imagine my Methodist minister father's surprise, when he lay fully reclined in the La-Z-Boy, only to find himself face to face with The Shit Channel. Yep, hubby named HSN "The Shit Channel." Because, as he says "they just try to get you to buy a bunch of shit that you don't need." Oye.

That's the man I love. Yep. Calls 'em as he sees 'em. But then again, he's not exactly wrong on this one, either.

And so, the next time you decide that you must go search for cubic zirconia or the like, and shop from your TV screen, go check out Purse Diva Vintage, at Main Street Vintage. She's got this fab deco style rhinestone necklace for sale. Bargain price, and vintage, to boot. Spray tan not included.

PMS is a terrible thing to waste

The doc that hubby used to work for swore that PMS didn't exist. Odd, because she is a woman, but she really didn't believe that it was real. I say, come to our house.

Keep a calendar handy, because it's always helpful to know when PMS may be looming. If you forget to keep track, watch for signs, like

The Look -- a glare that will peel your skin off, layer by layer, till you look like The Visible Man.

The Rolling Eyes -- eyes that suddenly disappear into the head during an upward spiral. It is not recommended to slap the victim on the back during The Rolling Eyes, lest the eyes pop out and fly across the room.

The Folded Arms -- a stance that says "You have no choice, you're already in the fight." Trying to avoid what comes after the arms have folded is useless. Just give in to the Force.

The Ugly Cry -- trademarked by Oprah, it's a classic PMS thing. I've been known to have the Ugly Cry show up during movies like Beetlejuice -- a movie that, to this day, I've never seen in its entirety. A comedy during which I had shaking sobs so bad that hubby had to turn it off and to this day, even HE hasn't seen it all the way through.

How does one combat PMS? It's very simple: chocolate. Milk chocolate, to be specific, with a side of foot massage. DS13 has already told me that for Mother's Day, I will be receiving coupons for five foot massages. Does that tell you anything? Foot massages could solve the Middle East issues, I tell you. There's nothing like having one's feet rubbed, especially when it feels like some body parts might explode, implode, or just plain fall out. But back to chocolate -- it solves a world of evils, but you may as well just stock up on everything, because sometimes, eating everything in your path is just the thing to do.

Music might also help, but nothing sad. You might try something like "She Drives Me Crazy," by, ironically, the Fine Young Cannibals. Sadly, the group was never heard from again, once they recorded the song. Perhaps the mother ate her young.

Wearing soothing colors might help to assuage The Mood, but likewise, be on the watch for what she's wearing. If it's anything in red, like this Lorraine lounging robe, tell her she looks mahvelous, then back slowly out of the room. If you see The Look, grab me that little pretty, available now at Damn Good Vintage, and pass me the bonbons.

I just might let you live.

Time, Wonder and Utter Chaos

We spent our evening downtown tonight, at the Barack Obama rally. Crazy how the whole family came together for a single purpose -- except ds13 who was mystified as to why he'd want to be there.

As a result, he was left home with the responsibility of feeding the dogs and taking a shower. I think we're one for two on that count.

Hubby was a little stressed about the whole thing, because dd was slow getting home from her first day on the new job at the stables. Gave me time to water the new grass whilst hubby paced, till she rolled in and off we went, to stand in line for three hours. Yeah -- that's something to rush for, all right. CNBC got some footage of us -- ds18 blew them a kiss -- and a good time was had by all.

We were there with friends, and some people hadn't eaten, and for some reason the food vendors weren't out, except for a lone capitalist, lugging a cooler full of water bottles who was making a killing, and later showed up during a brief shower, with rain ponchos for sale. I expected him to pull out a martini shaker or bratwurst next, however, for all the buttons and shirts on sale, there was no food, so when the occasional good Democrat would go by with a pizza or Subway, someone in the group would slyly grin and only half jokingly say "we can take 'em." This would incite a momentary panic on the part of the passer-by, causing them to pick up the pace to a trot, never losing eye contact, and disappear into Daylight Savings Time pretty quickly. I guess the word's gotten round that my family and its food obsession is not to be messed with.

Oddities of the night were the panhandler with the sign that said "why lie? It's for beer," a thick accented Jamaican type accented guy who had a long, pleading conversation with us, the only thing of which we could comprehend is that White Castle has the cheapest burgers, and the old professor looking guy walking around sermonizing about how Iraq needs an American style electoral college. WHAT?

We managed to make it in and get about 50 feet from the stage. I have taken notes from my mother, the president, and have learned that you just have to take openings in the crowd, barge through, and the minions will follow. I managed to get us up there without yelling "lady with a baby" even once, which is pretty good for me. Missed the opening act (another politician, running locally for Congress), but we got to hear Stevie Wonder sing a couple of songs -- during which vertically challenged dd kept saying she couldn't see, to which I, in my typically smart alec frame of mind, said neither could Stevie.

The crowd went wild when The Man arrived. He's one motivational man, that's for certain. Motivational enough that someone in front had a hallelujah moment and hit the deck shortly into his speech. Next thing you know, the big O was asking for a paramedic. If you knew the hubby, you'd know why I was only half surprised that he, the nurse-now-painter, didn't hustle up there and make himself a hero. I think he was still on ds's shoulders at the time, making a scene of his own. Obama has no idea just how close he came to a brush with Utter Chaos.

Nothing's perfect thought: got rained on a little, hard to get out of the immediate area because they didn't get the gates opened up enough for more than a trickle of people to get out, and I wasn't going over the barriers like the hub wanted me to. "Honey," says the hub, "Thomas and I will life you over." I could just see that. Besides putting him out of work for a week, ds pulling his back and failing his physical for the new job, I'd end up on CNN as the crazy woman being lugged out of the rally, screaming some type of propaganda from the other team. They'd twist it, I'm sure, that I was some sort of Hoosier maniac, and that the snipers on the roof all had their rifles trained on me, when actually what would have happened was me being lugged over the retaining barrier and drowning in a port-o-let, while screaming "keep doing the CPR! I gotta get my vote in."

So yeah, I'll be taking part in shaping the future when I cast my all-too-suddenly important, not to mention downright-out-of place-because-it's-meaningful vote. So if you want to shape your own future, check out this fabulous Thierry Mugler suit, from Special Somethings Vintage Clothing. It's perfect for election time -- twists and turns, nothing's all black and white, and the hourglass shape says it's time. Hallelujah!